


Do It For Your People, Do It For Your Pride

by AllTheCactiInTheGarden



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Rating May Change, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-03-12 12:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13547337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheCactiInTheGarden/pseuds/AllTheCactiInTheGarden
Summary: Lincoln is in a bit of a pickle - he has a target on his back and a pack to protect from Lechero's evil plans. In a world where humans and werewolves try their best to coexist he and his Betas have to tackle both the police and the biggest wolf pack in Chicago, who for once seem to have a common goal - to see Lincoln behind bars; or better yet, dismemebered in a ditch. But fortune favors the bold and Lincoln may receive help from an unexpected source.





	1. Down the Rabbit Hole

Henry Pope’s office was always organized and clean – nothing in the room indicated how busy its occupant’s days were and how often he stayed there for the better part of the night, pouring over files and dealing with tedious paperwork. The man was old-fashioned, responsible and hard-working; it seemed sometimes that he was the only chief of police in the whole of Chicago who wasn’t squarely in the pocket of some mob boss or another. Crime was running rampant and justice was hard to come by – especially in the wilder parts of the city, in the suburbs where the packs gathered, and where a police office wouldn’t even dare set foot in. Those areas were essentially ungovernable, full of wild, snarling beasts ready to tear the throat out of anything with a badge.

Today, Henry was faced with the most daunting task of all – on his desk lay a freshly printed sheet of paper. Another casualty report. Tyler Robert Hudson hadn’t been with the force for long; fresh out of the academy, full of determination and enthusiasm, optimistic to a fault…Henry sighed. This shouldn’t have happened, he thought. One would think that after almost thirty years he would get used to losing a man every now and again. It was inevitable, after all. But it never got any easier, not really.The loss was made that much worse by circumstance – the man’s body was found lying in a ditch in one of the many slums of Englewood, face down, naked, mangled. Bite wounds littered almost every inch of the skin, none fatal enough to kill, all of them were shallow, almost superficial. But the sheer number of them was truly astounding – all signs pointed to a “kill for fun”. The wolves probably surrounded him and took turns sinking their teeth into his flesh until…The worse part was what they’d done to his face – it was essentially just a large gaping wound, full of twisted, torn flesh, sickening to look at. And now here Henry was, pen hovering over paper, the pull to report everything truthfully and to its full extent warring inside him with the desire to keep Bob’s inglorious end away from those who would be heartbroken to hear of it. Namely his beloved wife and his young daughter, who shouldn’t have their memories of him tainted by the horrible end he’d been met with.

Henry knew who was responsible, it wasn’t that hard to figure out. Only one pack in the whole of Englewood was able of such unapologetic cruelty and monstrous evil – only Lechero would suffer his wolves to commit something that atrocious. But Lechero had a kingdom of his own; he was virtually untouchable, hidden deep within his den, surrounded by desperately loyal wolves submissive to his every whim. Any effort on Pope’s part to bring him to justice would be a declaration of war. And as it were, he was short on everything – weapons, manpower, courage. And as much as Pope was convinced of who was to blame in this, his officers weren’t so keen to agree. Especially his deputy, the inimitable Bradley Bellick, was strongly against it. “Let’s not forget, boss, that Lechero is not the only homicidal maniac running around Englewood,” he’d insisted. “Let’s not forget about that bastard Burrows.” That statement was met with murmurs of agreement, which only served to spur Bellick on. “He’s been building his own pack, after all.” Lincoln Burrows presented an infinitely more pursuable avenue of investigation, that much was clear. His pack, like all the other pseudo-packs of Englewood, was hardly a force to be reckoned with. Probably just a few straggling wolves, too weak or too scared to play with the big guns. Sure, Burrows might have a bit of a reputation in the human world for killing the vice-president’s brother, but sending a bullet into someone’s brain hardly earned you respect among the wolf community. He was not a threat, just a scared little puppy backed into a corner – he couldn’t leave Englewood, where he was virtually above the law and safe from prosecution, but he couldn’t make a name for himself there, either. Under Lechero’s thumb, nobody could rise above the rest.

As horrible as Bob’s death was, it was nothing compared to what Lechero’s wolves were prepared to dish out on anyone who dared challenge the iron grip they had on the territory. Those stupid enough or brave enough to step up and bare their teeth were disposed of forthwith, without mercy and without a care, made into an example for anybody thinking about following in their footsteps. Skinned wolf carcasses, chomped-off limbs and torn-apart wolf bodies were a regular find in the streets where Lechero ruled. Burrows and his pathetic pack of mange-infested dogs were probably huddled together in some nondescript basement, too scared to even fart too loudly, lest they be discovered. Going after him was going after the easy kill. 

>>>>>><<<<<<

Lechero wasn’t the kind of ruler who was willing to come down from his dais and speak with the plebs eye to eye. No, that wasn’t his style. His reluctance to deal too closely with those he deemed beneath himself may have been rooted in a deep sense of superiority that didn’t allow him acknowledge them as anything but the dirt on the bottom of his shoe, but it was more likely a simple shrewd calculation – the knowledge that those who seem untouchable are perceived as almost invulnerable, and therefore infinitely more intimidating.

His residence was located in the deepest, shadiest part of Englewood and yet its large, sprawling grounds spoke of nothing but wealth, power and refined taste. That too, seemed hardly anything but a show put on for the occasional visitors, meant to overwhelm as well as intimidate – Lechero was throwing his vast wealth, illustrated so completely by his lifestyle, into the face of anyone who might’ve come thinking that the man couldn’t possibly live up to his reputation. "Look at the empire I've built" the unnecessary golden statues framing the driveway on each side like glamorous guardians seemed to say "You’re no match for me. Whatever plans you came here with, don’t even try." The mansion itself was as grand as the grounds around them hinted at and promised – lavish and unnecessary and breath-taking in its excessive grandeur. The entire south wall was dominated by a large balcony with a golden canopy above it. On that balcony stood Lechero himself, gazing down at a ragtag pack of rugged wolves on the ground under him. He preferred talking to those under his domain from his elevated position, as though his metaphorical superiority needed to be properly illustrated to be satisfyingly emphasised. God forbid the leader of the biggest, wealthiest pack in Englewood stood on even footing with Lincoln Burrows and his pathetic little squadron of doggies. Burrows’ pseudo-pack was one of many Lechero had under his thumb, but it seemed that, while there definitely was no love lost on the others, he despised Lincoln just a smidge more than the others and was milking them for all they were worth, as though it was his goal to wring them all dry.

“What’s this about, Lechero?” Burrows asked gruffly, keeping his eyes trained on his knees. “We’ve already paid.”  
For his insolence, he was dealt a swift blow that snapped his head harshly to the side. When he straightened again, a bruise was already blooming across his cheekbone.  
“That you have,” Lechero said. “This time, it's not money I want. I have a task for you.”

Burrows had to almost visibly restrain himself from lashing out; he was an Alpha and Alphas didn’t take orders from anybody, after all. They were born rulers, not followers, their very natures rallied against mindless obedience and subservience. And Lincoln Burrows was stubborn and rebellious to boot – no matter how many times Lechero beat him into submission, he always got back up, his eyes shining with defiance no amount of physical pain could suck from his bones. He was born to hold his head high and look everyone in the eye, not crouch at the feet of his betters, begging for scraps like a mutt. But he had a pack who relied on him. True, it was not a pack in the traditional sense, but a pack nonetheless and his betas needed him to bow down and swallow every angry insult that was bubbling up in his throat and making his insides boil with anger. They needed him to put their well-being above his pride and submit to the man who held their lives in his hand.  
“What I need you to do for me is bring me one particular set of blueprints, which is currently housed at Middleton, Maxwell and Schaum in the city.”

Lechero took a sip from his colourful cocktail and smiled magnanimously down at his subjects. His right-hand man and secondary Alpha Sammy Norino stood by his side, hand casually on the butt of his pistol. The man was as vicious as Lechero was cunning, hot-headed and violent, but easily kept in line. Unlike most of Lechero’s pack, his loyalty wasn’t born out of fear or greed, but rather of a deep-seated bloodlust and thirst for chaos and death. All he needed to be satisfied was the occasional hands-on, bloody execution and he was as obedient as a well-trained puppy.  
“The prints are of a building called ‘The Allele’. You will find them and you will bring them to me without attracting undue attention – you have three days.”

Lechero clearly didn’t care what any of them had to say about their assignment. Without waiting for Lincoln to respond, he turned and walked back inside. The guards, standing silently by, in a body took a step closer to Lincoln’s pack in a clear indication that their audience has come to an end. They stood up slowly, and without protest headed single file back the way they’d come from. First came Linoln Burrows, fists clenched and eyes narrowed. Behind him followed Alexander Mahone, who was considerably more put-together, walking calmly and casually behind his Alpha.  
Alexander Mahone was Lincoln’s secondary Alpha, and the two of them, much like Lechero and Sammy, complimented each other perfectly. Lincoln was all brawn, his attitude leaning towards “punch first, ask questions later”, and Mahone, while not hesitant to employ muscles when the situation called for them, was a quick thinker and preferred more elegant and less violent solutions to their problems. The two of them did not always get along; their personalities were too different for them to always be able to see things from the other’s perspective, but their disagreements were always as quick to spring up as they were to get resolved.

Behind Alexander trailed Manche Sanchez, a fat little man with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His dark brown curls bounced with every step and his baby face was set in a deep frown. The man was a Beta in the worst sense of the word. Quiet, unassuming, nor very bright or brave, the best that could probably be said about him was that he was not the worst. Considering the kind of upbringing that’d been bestowed upon him, it was a miracle he wasn’t in prison – a small-time criminal born to a family of small-time criminals who’d probably spent more time locked up than free men, Mache’s path to incarceration had been clean and clear from birth. He was a bitten wolf, a fact that only increased his chances for a short, unglamorous life of a seedy crook. But, somehow, against all odds, Mache had managed to evade the long arms of the law and together with his cousin he’d found a new home in Burrows’ pack. 

His cousin Fernando Sucre’s character held up much better under scrutiny. He was no stranger to the realm of the illegal, but his nature was not that of a thief or a murderer. He was a loyal wolf – and an even more loyal husband. His wife, Maricruz Delgado, was the centre of his universe and he was determined to do everything he could to ensure that she and their unborn child would never want for anything in their lives. Despite the less than savoury characters he’d associated with before he’d been bitten, he was still what one would call ‘a good man’, if a little rough around the edges.

C-Note, or Benjamin Miles Franklin, was a disillusioned veteran who’d come from his deployment in Kuwait saddled with a dishonourable discharge from the army and soon earned himself an eight-year prison sentence for possession of stolen goods. Upon his release, he still had a family to take care of – but with the shame of a dishonourable discharge hanging over his head and prison time on his resume, employers weren’t exactly clamouring to snatch him up. Not even five months after having finally secured himself a job for UPS, he was bitten by a werewolf and his life went off the rails again. Now, as part of Licoln’s pack, he and his wife Kacee were struggling to make ends meet. Both of them tried their best by their daughter Dede, who’d been diagnosed with a rare kidney disease at birth, but try hard as they might, once they’d paid for her treatments, there never seemed to be enough money for everything they needed.

The last member of their pack was David Apolskis, or Tweener, as they’d taken to calling him. It was as much a commentary on his baby face as it was on his emotional and intellectual maturity. Having been deemed academically ineligible, he’d turned to making a living by pickpocketing. In fact, it was that particular talent and that particular talent only that got him accepted into Lincoln’s pack. There wasn’t much his quick fingers couldn’t snatch, and they were in fact the only fixed source of income the pack had to rely on. It was arguable that the young man caused more trouble than he was worth. He was as loudmouthed as he was stupid, also insubordinate and argumentative, desperate to prove himself, quick to posture and just as quick to turn tail and run when things inevitably went sideways.  
It was far from a glorious ensemble, but they’d had each other’s backs though some tough situations over the years, if only for a lack of other options. Each had their own reasons for not joining up with Lechero, even if it would make their lives easier – each had their own reasons for staying but in the end, they were all loyal to Lincoln, because without him, god knows where they’d be now.

>>>>>><<<<<<

“My cousin works there,” Sucre volunteered. “He can let us in.”  
They would do what Lechero had asked of them – the other option was completely out of the question and therefore nobody had even bothered to bring it up, regardless of how doing Lechero’s bidding rubbed them all the wrong way. In the end it didn’t even come down to their non-existent chances should they decide to challenge his authority. It was just a simple matter of biology – he was still their true Alpha, after all.  
“Your cousin works at Middleton, Maxwell and Schaum?” Mahone asked disbelievingly.  
“Yeah,” Sucre confirmed peevishly. “So what?”  
“Well first of all, I’m having a hard time imagining anyone from your family actually working, but especially not for them,” Mahone clarified.  
“Why?” Lincoln butted in. “What’s so special about them?”  
“They’re only the most prestigious architecture firm in Chicago, probably the entire state. They’ve put together projects for the governor himself.”

“And your cousin works for them?” Lincoln turned to Sucre.  
“He’s the janitor, okay?” Sucre snapped. As always, he didn’t take too kindly to anyone insulting his family. Calling Hector Avila his cousin was a real stretch of the word, but that didn’t detract any from Sucre’s loyalty and his protectiveness over the man’s reputation.  
“Now that I can believe,” Mahone muttered under his breath.  
“Okay, Sucre, here’s what I need you to do,” Lincoln said, ignoring Mahone completely, “I need you to call your cousin – what’s his name?”  
“Hector.”  
“Right, I need you to call Hector and get him on board. With an inside man, this job would be a hell of a lot easier – not only could he let us in, as a janitor he probably knows where everything is stored and we won’t have to turn the place upside down looking for those damn blueprints.”  
“He owes me one,” Sucre said. “He’ll be in – or I’ll kick his ass in.”  
“Do it then!” Lincoln snapped, when Sucre just stood there like a tree stooge.  
“What, now?” Sucre seemed completely flabbergasted by the idea, as though he’d never head something so preposterous in his entire life.  
“No, next Saturday. Of course, now!”  
“Okay, okay,” Sucre said, rising his hands in surrender. “I’m on it, papi.”  
“Do you really think we can pull it off?” Mahone asked candidly, when Sucre was out of earshot. Manche and Tweener, who hadn’t contributed anything to the conversation, were hanging back, bickering about something and not really paying attention. It’s been decided early on that the two of them wouldn’t be going – they didn’t exactly need everybody and those two were bound to bring problems raining down on their heads. It was a decision Tweener and Manche were more than happy with and now didn’t consider the robbery any of their business. C-Note hadn’t refused to take part in the heist itself, but had some prior engagements and left as soon as they’d come back.  
“Why not?” asked Licoln, ever the optimist. “If Sucre’s cousin gets on board, we have and in – won’t have to break any door or windows and risk triggering the alarm, because I’m sure a fancy place like that has one. We’ll be in and out in a snap and nobody needs to know anything.”  
“And what if Sucre’s cousin doesn’t get on board?” Mahone pressed. “What then?”  
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Lincoln responded casually. Mahone wasn’t exactly satisfied by that answer and frowned down at the tips of his shoes. “I think we’re risking too much with this.”  
“Hey man, if you want out, you’re out. Me and Sucre and C-Note will manage fine without you. Just never pegged you for a coward I guess.”  
Mahone didn’t show nearly as much anger at that accusation as would’ve perhaps been appropriate; considering his position as secondary Alpha and even more so his previous employ with the FBI, he was bound to feel a slight to his pride at that particular insinuation. But it seemed that Mahone was too preoccupied by other thoughts to even spare Lincoln’s accusation any brainpower whatsoever. Lincoln, clearly thrown by Mahone’s lack of reaction, scoffed angrily. “You got something on your mind, FBI?”  
“Nothing,” Mahone said. “The idea of doing Lechero’s dirty work just really doesn’t sit well with me, you know?”  
“Well, join the club. I don’t enjoy being his lackey any more than you do.”  
“I know that,” Mahone said. “And I know there’s no way out of this, but it still…pisses me off.”  
“Well, get you head in the game man. We’ll need you at your best if we’re going to pull this off. I don’t remember you being so hung up about running drug shipments for him.”  
“Yeah, but this time it’s different,” Mahone drawled reluctantly.  
“Different how?”  
“Good news, papi!” Sucre pranced back inside, stuffing his phone in his pocket with a sunny smile on his face. “Hector’s in. Wasn’t too keen at first, but changed his mind pretty quickly.”  
“Did you explain to him what exactly we’ll need from him?” Mahone asked.  
“Yeah. Let us in once everybody’s gone, tell us where the plans are and then let us back out. Easy.”  
“And does he know exactly where the plans are stored?”  
“He says there building has more than one storage space and that the location depends on when the project was completed. Unless it’s in the archives though, locating it shouldn’t be too difficult.”  
“Damn Lechero,” Lincoln muttered. „He didn’t give us almost anything to go on. We’re basically running in blind, hoping to stumble over what we’re looking for. Are you sure we can trust this cousin of yours?”  
“He’s family,” Sucre defended. “Hell yeah I’m sure.”  
“Alright,” Lincoln conceded. “When is he coming then?”  
“He says he’ll be here in four hours or so. Do we all need to be here for that?”  
“Why?” Lincoln frowned. “You got somewhere better to be?”  
“Yeah, kinda?” Sucre said hesitantly. “It’s just that I promise Maricruz I’d come home early today. C’mon man, you don’t need me here. I’m not exactly a big planner.”  
“Alright,” Lincoln conceded. “Manche, Tweener!” he called at the two bickering betas. “Come here!”  
“What’s up, boss?” Tweener mumbled as they came closer.  
“I don’t need you here so you can go. I hope I don’t need to remind you not to talk to anybody about this, okay?”  
“You got it,” Manche nodded eagerly, clearly happy at the prospect of getting out of their stuffy den. Tweener nodded his assent as well and they both disappeared. “Sucre, you can leave too. But be on time tomorrow, or else.”  
Sucre’s face split into a wide grind. “No worries, Linc, I’ll be here,” he promised. “I’ll be an hour early!” he shouted cheerfully over his shoulder on his way out.  
“Are you sure letting Sucre go is a good idea?” Mahone inquired. “Maybe Hector won’t want to talk to us without him here.”  
“I’ve met the guy before,” Lincoln assured him. “It’s gonna be fine. We just need him to here to smooth out a few details and give us the layout of the building. It won’t take long.”  
“I hope you’re right. I wouldn’t want to postpone the whole thing, considering how little time we have, just because Sucre wants to spend his every waking moment with his hands glued to Maricruz’s belly.”


	2. The Man With The Plan

Middleton, Maxwell and Schaum resided in the heart of the financial district in a modern, sleek building with floor-to-ceiling windows, which in itself was an advertisement to their exceptional abilities. Even among other handsome, high-rise buildings theirs stood out as a glass and concrete ode to modern architecture and excessive wealth.  
Founded by James Middleton, Richard Maxwell and Vincent Schaum in 1959 it survived four financial crises and an early 1980s recession, scored some of the most high-profile and profitable projects in the state everybody and their mothers had been clamouring to get their hands on and almost quadrupled their staff over the years.  
The firm’s name still remained the same, ever though there wasn’t a Maxwell on the board anymore and Elaine Middleton and Robert Schaum no longer held the majority of the shares. And their reputation has only grown; just as it was an aspiring actor’s dream to worm their way into the elites of Hollywood, there wasn’t a more ambitious goal for a talented architect than to work for MMS who by now had branches all over the country and was planning to expand overseas.

Their headquarters in Chicago still remained their pride and joy – there they employed over five hundred people, from architects and engineers to secretaries and cleaning ladies. And one of those five hundred people was janitor Hector Avila, Sucre’s cousin. The man, while lacking in higher education and any marketable skills, was not stupid. Having been dealt some bad cards at birth, he’d had to learn to make do with what he had and take every opportunity before it slipped from his grasp. So, when his cousin Fernando called with a very unusual request, he knew that it could be precisely what he’d been waiting for for a long time.His job as a janitor was simple – all he had to do was make sure the place was clean, sanitary and generally in good condition. He was essentially a glorified cleaning lady, gathering and emptying trash bins and stocking bathroom with soap and toilet paper and other supplies. Sweeping and vacuuming the floors in the offices and hallways was also something he had to do every day (the firm housed some serious neat freaks capable of throwing a fit over a smudge of mud on the marble floors). He was also responsible for making the building secure by locking every door that could be locked.His keychain was full of keys of various shapes and sizes and it was close to midnight when he pulled one of those keys out and opened the back door to let in four suspicious invididuals.  
“Alright. Where do we go now?” Lincoln whispered from the depths of his pulled-up hood.  
“I checked the database,” Hector whispered back, “and the blueprints you’re looking for should be in storage A, since the building was completed only a month or so ago.”  
“And where’s that?”  
“Follow me.”  
“Are there any cameras or anything?” Sucre asked his cousin.  
“No, no cameras, but we still need to be careful not to make any noise.”  
“And why’s that?”  
“Because there are still some people here man,” Hector said apologetically.  
“What?” Lincoln snapped, then remembered the need to keep quiet and continued in very angrily-sounding whisper. “Then you should’ve called the whole thing off! That was the deal!”  
“I’m sorry! But this firm is full of crazy workoholics! There’s always somebody after hours and you said you only had three days!”  
“Is there any chance they might hear us?” Mahone inquired, stepping closer. They’d stopped in a dimly-lit corridor leading to the service elevators and Lincoln had Hector pressed up against the wall by the collar of his ugly blue coveralls. Sucre was standing hesitantly by, as though he wanted to intervene, but not even he was looking very pleased by his cousin at the moment.  
“No, man!” Hector said. “Their offices are on the other side of the building. We won’t have to come anywhere near them, I promise! I don’t wanna get caught any more than you do!”  
That reminder more than anything else seemed to calm Lincoln down enough back up and let Hector go. “You’re a real hothead, aren’t you?” Hector remarked conversationally and headed for the elevators, the other four trailing behind him.  
“Why are all of you here, anyway?” he asked, pressing the button for the elevator to come down. “Just one would’ve been enough, the plans ain’t that heavy.”  
“Very funny,” Lincoln growled. “We figured that if we needed to search for the blueprints, the more hands the better.”  
The elevator doors opened with a quiet ding and all of them quickly piled inside. All of them, that is, except for Hector, who loitered outside and wouldn’t step in. “I don’t…” he started, but as the door began closing, C-Note grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him none-too-gently inside, making him stumble. “What are you waiting for?” he growled. “A written invitation?”  
The elevator ascended swiftly and smoothly and before they knew it, the doors were opening again, this time to a spacious lobby. “This way,” Hector pointed. “It’s that door. And here’s the key.”  
“Wait, you’re not coming with?” Sucre said.  
“No man, I’m already way more involved than I’m comfortable with. I’ll stay and be the lookout.”  
Lincoln muttered something under his breath and neither Mahone nor C-Note looked particularly pleased to heat that, but they weren’t exactly about to drag Hector in by his hair. Instead, the hurried to the door the janitor had pointed too. It was a nondescript door, nothing set it apart from all the other doors around it. On the wall next to it was a shiny steel plaque. Storage.  
Sucre hurried forward with the key. They fumbled around for the light switch but in a second the effort proved unnecessary when the light flickered to live on its own and revealed rows upon rows of steel storage cabinets. “That’s just great,” Lincoln grumbled. “How are we supposed to find anything in here?”  
“It seems the prints are stored by date,” Mahone said, crouching by one of the cabinets and inspecting a small sticker on its side. “Hector said the project was completed a couple months ago, right? So, it should be…right here.” As he spoke, Mahone had moved down the row and tapped on the fourth cabinet he passed. He pulled it open and began searching through its contents. “The Allele, the Allele,” he murmured, pointing from sticker to sticker and following the finger with his eyes. “I don’t think it’s here, guys,” he said.  
“Maybe it’s not when the commission was completed, but when it was assigned that’s important,” Lincoln mused. “A big project could take a year, right?”  
He moved to a row behind Mahone and pulled open the first cabinet. “Sucre, C-Note,” he called. “Try others from last year.”  
Lincoln soon slammed his cabinet shut with disappointment clearly written on his face. “We need to hurry people,” he said, checking his watch. “We can’t stay here much longer.”  
“I think I got it!” called Sucre, pulling out a grey storage tube. “The Allele, right?”  
“Yeah, that’s right,” C-Note confirmed, closing his cabinet and moving to look over Sucre’s shoulder. “C’mon, pull them out, let’s see what’s so important about them.”  
“Don’t even think about it!” Lincoln growled, snatching the tube from Sucre’s hand before the man could twist the cap open.  
“C’mon, Linc! Aren’t you curious?” C-Note goaded.  
“Hell yeah I am,” Lincoln answered. “But we ain’t got time for this, okay? You can look at them all damn day once we get out of here, but right now we need to beat it.”  
As though the universe wanted to properly illustrate the truth of Lincoln’s words, police sirens began echoing in the distance and all four men instantly stopped bickering. “What the hell? Did we trigger a silent alarm or something?”  
“Or something,” Lincoln growled through gritted teeth. “Hector. Quick, let’s go!”

They fled the room, barely even remembering to lock it behind themselves, and piled into the elevator, frantically pressing the button for the ground floor. “Linc,” Sucre grabbed the man’s shoulder. “You don’t really think that Hector…he wouldn’t do that.”  
“Somebody must’ve called the police! And Hector is the only one who knew we were here!”  
“He said there were other people here though,” Sure reminded him. “Maybe it was one of them!”  
“Then where the hell is Hector? If he didn’t call the cops, why isn’t he here?”  
They reached the ground floor with a ding and they vacated it in a flurry of frantic movement. “Do you think they’re by the back door?” Sucre asked. “Is there any other way out?”  
“How am I supposed to know?” Lincoln snapped. “Our guide ditched us if you haven’t noticed!”  
“Dude!” C-Note groaned. “We’re in so much trouble right now! Do you know what Lechero’s gonna go to us?”  
“Right now I’m more worried about what the police are gonna do to us if they catch us,” Lincoln snapped. “Let’s go people!” he commanded, obviously having decided that the back door was their only chance of escaping this precarious situation without handcuffs adorning their wrists.  
Their footsteps echoed loudly in the empty corridor – the police sirens were still heard in the distance, but it seemed that all the noise was coming from the other side of the building. Maybe the back entrance was still clear…maybe they could still get away…  
“Stop right there!” The door was blocked, not by the police, but by Hector who was standing with his feet planted wide apart and a loaded gun pointed straight at them. “What are you doing, man?” Sucre snapped disbelievingly. “What the hell are you doing?”  
“I can’t let you get away,” Hector said. “You’ll stay right here until the police comes.”  
“And what about you?” Lincoln said. “Do you think they’re just gonna ignore you and your piece right there?”  
Hector smirked. “C’mon Lincoln, I know you’re not that stupid. I work here, remember? This beauty,” he shook the pistol for emphasis, “is my service weapon. A fancy place like this needs to have proper security, don’t you think?”  
“A janitor with a gun,” C-Note groaned. “Now I can honestly say I’ve seen everything.”  
“Why are you doing this?” Sucre groaned.  
“If you’re not smart enough to figure it out, papi,” Hector smirked, “I’m not going to help you. But don’t worry – I’ll take real good care on Maricruz while you’re rotting in jail.”  
“Hijo de puta!” Sucre screamed, throwing himself bodily at Hector, heedless of the gun the man still had trained on him. “I’m gonna kill you, you…!”  
Lincoln grabbed him and pulled him back before his fist could connect with Hector’s chest. “Calm down!” he commanded and Sucre quieted down immediately, backing off but growling in anger.  
“Yeah, that’s right,” Hector couldn’t help but add salt to the wound. “Like a good little doggy!”  
“You gotta let us go man,” Lincoln said, raising his hands in the air and stepping closer to Hector, who immediately turned the barrel of his gun to him. “Right now.”  
“And why would I…?”  
“Hey!” Mahone, who’d been quiet up until that point, suddenly shouted from the back of the room. Hector’s eyes immediately slid over to him and he lowered his gun marginally. That split-second diversion was enough for Lincoln to take the final step, duck under Hector’s upraised arm, turn, grab him by the wrist and jam his other elbow right into his face. Hector went down with a cry of pain, but still managed to pull the trigger before the gun was forcefully torn from his grasp. The gunshot, almost deafening in the small space, was followed by a loud groan as Sucre went down to his knees, clutching at his abdomen through his shirt, where a large crimson stain was quickly spreading.   
“That motherfucker shot me,” he groaned disbelievingly, voice strained with pain. Probably a stomach wound.  
“C-Note, Mahone, grab him!” Lincoln commanded, tucking Hector’s gun under his waistband. Then he bent over and picked up the knocked-out Hector rather carelessly in a fireman’s carry and kicked open the door. “Let’s go!”  
“Why are you taking him?” Alex asked, hefting Sucre’s arm over his shoulder.  
“I ain’t taking the fall for this,” Lincoln threw over his shoulder. “This fool can explain things to Lechero himself.”  
“Pointing fingers isn’t your style, Linc. Or is it?”  
“Yeah, well, neither is robbery. And yet here we are.”

They disappeared quickly into a back alley where the sounds of the sirens were a little bit muted. “How’s he?” Lincoln asked, nodding to Sucre.  
“It’s probably a stomach wound and he’s lost a lot of blood,” Mahone said. “But I don’t think the idiot used a silver bullet, so it should be fine.”  
“Silver or no silver,” Sucre groaned. “It hurts like a bitch!” Both of his arms were thrown over C-Note and Mahone’s shoulders respectively and he was hanging between the two wolves like a rag doll. His eyes were drooping closed, he was obviously already experiencing the effects of the blood loss.  
“Let’s go, the car is not far, we can make it!” Lincoln said. The narrow alley they were in should lead them straight onto the street the car was parked. They limped past overflowing dumpsters and between puddles of fluids of unknown origin, listening frantically for any sounds beyond the sounds of their own footsteps. When Lincoln got to the mouth of the alley, a sour scent licked his nose and he recoiled. “Get…!” he started, but before he could get any more words out a shout pierced the air. “Freeze!”  
A young policeman stood under the lights of a streetlamp, gun pointed straight at them, a walkie-talkie raised up and ready to broadcast their location to the rest of the patrol. “Hands where I can see them!”

The second gunshot of the night came even more as a surprise, because instead of any of them it was the young man who’d wowed to protect and serve the good citizens of Chicago, who slid soundlessly to the ground, the back of his head blow wide open like the doors of a Macy’s on Black Friday.  
The shooter was half-hidden in shadow, but even so it was clearly visible that he was dressed in a police uniform. “Go!” he said, motioning with his gun towards their car. “Go, you tools!”  
Without waiting for them to get moving, he put his gun away and bent over the body of his fallen comrade, turning him over on his back. “Peterson, you stupid do-gooder,” he murmured, lifting him from the ground by the armpits.

Lincoln, Sucre, Mahone and C-Note didn’t exactly stick around to see what he man did with the body. They had plenty on their plates themselves – it took them about an hour before they found their way through the centre of Chicago, weaving through narrow back alleys and avoiding every patrolling police car. All the while Sucre in the backseat moaned like he was on his deathbed, clutching at his abdomen as though his intestines were about to fall out.  
“I do hope this was worth it,” C-Note grumbled from the passenger seat, flipping the storage tube with the blueprints around in his hands. “Why does Lechero need these plans so bad anyway?”  
“You’re asking as though you expect any of us to have an answer. We know as little as you do, remember?” Mahone’s voice came from the backseat. He was sitting squashed between Sucre and the unconscious Hector, whom he hadn’t bothered to buckle up, so Hector’s head was rhythmically bashing against the can window whenever Lincoln made a sharp turn.  
“Well, maybe we should take a look then. Decide for ourselves,” C-Note said, looking over at Lincoln expectantly, as though waiting for him to give the go-ahead.  
“Suit yourself,” Lincoln nodded without taking his eyes off of the road. “But I don’t think it’ll do you much good.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Imagine you’ve seen them already,” Lincoln suggested. “What are you going to do now? Go to the police? Stop kidding yourself. Even if we knew every single detail of Lechero’s plan, here’s what we’d do – nothing. We would sit on our asses and let him do his thing like we always do, because we don’t have a choice.”  
“Aren’t you the least bit curious though?” C-Note pressed. “Don’t you want to know what Lechero’s planning? Even just for the sake of knowing?”  
“You know what they say, Benjamin,” Mahone quipped. “Curiosity killed the cat.”  
C-Note laughed, “Good thing we’re not cats then.”

>>>>>><<<<<<

Lechero’s power didn’t simply lie in his wealth or in the powerful pack full of loyal hounds, standing behind him and ready to do his bidding without a moment’s hesitation. No, his power lay in his influence. Like octopus he had his tentacles spread all over the city, reaching into the minds and pockets of those in positions of power. Armed with money, drugs, threats and violence Lechero had even been able to form beneficial relationships with various people in the governor’s office and in law enforcement. He was under the covers with so many people of status and wealth he was virtually untouchable. So, it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise he had his people in the Chicago PD, that those who were supposed to protect the law and punish those who would seek to violate it, instead did the bidding of the biggest crime lord in the city. And it really, really shouldn’t have come as a surprise that before Lincoln and his pack could even think about maybe not giving Lechero the complete recollection of the previous night’s events, the man already knew everything and more. The only think he didn’t know…well, let’s just say that Lincoln was more than happy to fill in that particular gap for him.  
“It was this idiot’s fault,” he growled, tossing his head in the general direction of Hector, who was kneeling next to him with his hands bound behind his back. “He called the police on us.”  
“But he’s one of your men, isn’t he?” Lechero said. “You brought him in on the job without my knowledge of permission, therefore the responsibility for his actions rests squarely on your shoulders, Alpha. You are to blame if you can’t keep your Betas in check.”

They’d already handed the blueprints over and Lechero had unrolled them and looked them over with a very satisfied expression on his face. But any hope Lincoln may have harboured about escaping unscathed went to hell in a handbasket when Lechero had remarked, almost casually: “I heard you ran into some trouble with the police yesterday.”  
“He’s not pack,” Lincoln growled. “He’s Sucre’s cousin and we brought him in on this because he works as a janitor for that architecture firm. He let us into the building.”  
“You would betray a family member, scum?” Lechero said. The man often boasted about having principles and rules. Without rules, we’re nothing but savages, he’d say, but he often chose strange moments to implement those rules. Unfortunately for Hector, it seemed that one such moment had just come to pass.  
“I can’t condone that,” he continued. “We have rules, after all. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”  
Hector, though it was not for a lack of trying, wasn’t able to get an intelligible word out past the gag in his mouth. Lincoln took pity on him and pulled the spit-soaked rag down to dangle around his throat. When his words were no longer obstructed by the smothering fabric, they tumbled out of Hector’s mouth in incoherent mess, interspersed with gasps for air and sobs.  
“Quit your whining!” Sammy snapped at him. “What are you, an Omega?”  
“Please, don’t kill me,” Hector sobbed, chest heaving. “Please, don’t kill me. I can explain everything, I promise!” He was frantic, squirming in his bonds, red in the face and trembling all over. Terror was clearly written into every line on his face and his eyes were blown wide with fear.  
“Sorry,” Lechero said, in spite of his previous words. “I don’t deal with the claims people make. I just make sure the rules are observed. We’ll have a fight!” Those words were met with eager cheers and shouts from the gathered members of Lechero’s pack. “Between a thief and a traitor. Now, I condone neither, and I wash my hands off both of them. But they have a problem, and we have rules. Therefore, with proper respect for the rules, this fight is engaged with only one rule – no weapons! Only man against man.” A brief pause. “Somebody untie him! I’m done talking!”  
Men, eager for violence and blood and the pain of others, began shouting, goading them on, whistling…therefore, Hector’s voice was nearly drowned out when he cried out, “I’m not gonna fight!”  
As weak as his voice was compared to the wall of sound that surrounded it, it still managed to find its way to the ears of those closest to them, and they hesitated, cries dying on their lips, confusion blooming in their eyes. Then they all, as one, looked to Lechero for guidance.  
“Please, I don’t wanna fight!” Hector continued desperately.  
“Well, it doesn’t really matter what you want now, does it?” Lechero answered disinterestedly. “Fight, or die on your knees.”  
“Please, I can be of use to you!” Hector wailed, tears and snot running down his face. He was prostrated on the ground, chin almost pressed into the dirt, desperately gazing up at Lechero on the balcony, as if waiting for salvation from God.  
“You have nothing I want.”  
“I can give you an Omega!” Hector screamed, bubbles of snot forming at his lips. He was now almost incoherent with terror.  
“You would offer you pack’s Omega for in exchange for your life?” Lechero snarled. “You scum!”  
“No, no, no!” Hector was now pressed face-down into the dirt, probably wishing he could just melt down and disappear. “I don’t have a pack and he’s not bonded, I swear! He doesn’t belong to anybody!”  
Lechero’s entire body seemed to snap to attention at those words. Where he’d been previously lounging against the railing, relaxed and casual as you please, comfortable in his power, he was now tense and ready to pounce without a moment’s hesitation. Sammy by his side wasn’t faring much better, eyes flashing yellow and hands curling into fists by his sides.  
Lincoln couldn’t believe what he was hearing – anger at Hector’s spinelessness combined with disbelief at what he’d actually said swirled inside him, and when he raised his head to look at Mahone, he saw his own feelings mirrored perfectly within his secondary Alpha’s eyes. An Omega, an unbound Omega, a male unbound Omega – it was something unheard of in Keystone, a creature out of a fairy-tale.  
“Did you say he?” Lechero asked, leaning over the railing, every ounce of his attention focused on the quivering mass of Hector at his feet. “A male Omega?”  
“Yes, yes!” Hector squeaked, slowly raising his body from its prostrate position. “He works at MMS, he’s young and real pretty, too!”  
“Did you hear that, Sammy?” Lechero turned to his secondary Alpha with a smirk. “Young and real pretty. Now doesn’t that sound like somebody worthy of our attention?”  
“Yes, Alpha,” Sammy growled. “It most certainly does.”


	3. Idle Hands Are the Devil's Workshop, Idle Hands Are His Mouthpiece

Minnie Johnson was nervous; she smoothed down her skirt over her knees for the umpteenth time and checked her lipstick in a small pocket mirror. Perfect crimson, no smudges. She pulled her lips away from her teeth – no traces of lipstick there either.  
She put the mirror away and checked her watch; she couldn’t believe she was going to be late on her first day! She moaned in desperation and dug all ten newly manicured fingers into her knees. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she muttered.  
“Calm down, honey,” Rupert chuckled from the driver’s seat. He sure seemed to be having a good laugh at her expense, but she was so nervous she couldn’t even get angry. “Stop that,” he chided and pulled her left hand away from her knee. “You’re going to make it – look, we’re almost there.”  
Indeed, the car had already crawled past Intuit and was making its way at a snail’s pace down Milwaukee Avenue. “It’s on Erie Street,” she reminded him, in case he’d forgotten. That would be so like him.   
“I remember,” he said fondly. “Close to Galleria Marchetti, right? You know, I do listen sometimes when you talk.”  
Her lips twitched in a smile. “I don’t know why you don’t have a GPS anyway. It’s so practical!”  
“You know why,” he said. “I’ve told you a thousand times already.”  
“And yet I still don’t understand.”  
As soon as they made the left turn, the Middleton, Maxwell and Schaum building was clearly to be seen. She would never get tired of looking at it – she couldn’t believe she actually worked there now! Granted, it was a rather low-paying assistant position, but she hoped that in a few years, she’d rise in the ranks and get a job in the design department. That was where MMS excelled, after all. That was what they were known for and a position there was what she’d had her sights set on ever since high school.  
“I’m so proud of you, you know?” Rupert suddenly said. “I don’t think I’ve told you yet, but I am. So very proud of you.”  
“Are we getting a little misty-eyed, Mr Sanders?” she teased, but felt warmth spilling over her cheeks. He’d been so supportive of her during her college years and she was so excited to finally prove to him that his faith in her hadn’t been misplaced.  
“Go get ‘em,” he smiled and his smile lit up his entire face and she was reminded all over again why she’d fallen in love with this brilliant man and held onto him for all these years.  
“I love you,” she said. “I’ll call you after work, okay?”  
“Okay, love you too.”

The foyer was just as grand as the rest of the building; she’d been there before, of course, but it somehow still managed to take her breath away. She crossed her fingers, hoping that she would last in the firm long enough for the sight to become an every-day occurrence in her life. She’d heard from so many people how demanding it was to work for MMS, after all. It was not all peaches and cream for the employees of the most successful architecture firm in the state.  
“Hold the door!” she called, when she saw the doors to the elevator closing. She sped up, nearly tripping over her own feet in those ridiculous heels. “Thank you,” she smiled at the middle aged, besuited and bespectacled man with newspaper folder under his arm, who’d done as she asked. “Floor nine, please.”  
He pressed the requested button and turned to her with a half-smile. “New?” he asked.  
“Is it that obvious?” she winced.  
“No, no,” he hurried to assure her. “I’ve just never seen you here before. I have a great memory for faces – once I see a face, I never forget it.” He tapped his right temple with his knuckle.  
“I’m really nervous,” she said. “I’m meeting my new boss, Mr Scofield, for the first time today.”  
“Michael Scofield?” the man asked. “Don’t know the man personally, but I’ve never heard a bad word about him. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be just fine.” He was clearly just attempting to reassure her, but the effort was appreciated nevertheless. Unfortunately, before she could inquire further about her future boss, the elevator doors opened. “Good luck,” the man said as she stepped into the hallway.  
“Thank you,” she answered, genuinely meaning it. After their conversation, brief though it may have been, she felt much calmer than before.  
Accompanied by the sound of her heels clicking against the marble floors, she approached the receptionist’s desk with a hesitant smile. “Hi,” she stated, “my name is Minnie Johnson, I’m Mr Scofield’s new assistant?”  
The middle-aged woman regarded her over the rim of her glasses and gave her a blatant once-over. “I swear to god,” she muttered. “They just keep getting younger and younger.”  
Well. That wasn’t promising.  
“Follow me,” the receptionist croaked, climbing off her comfortable upholstered chair. She led Minnie through two sets of glass doors, which opened and closed soundlessly, and into a large, open room full of chairs and desks and people bent over their computer screens, completely focused on their work. Nobody even lifted their head to look at them as they passed. “Your desk is right here, Ms Johnson. Mr Scofield is not in yet, he usually comes around nine, his office is right there,” she pointed. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Welcome to MMS.”  
“Thank you,” Minnie managed. “I’ll try not to bother you too much.”  
“Please do,” was the flippant answer as the woman turned around and walked back to her desk. She must’ve been around forty years old, but when Minnie looked at her, she was suddenly reminded of all the hours spent on her couch with a remote in her hand and a bowl of popcorn in her lap, when she should’ve been in the gym working the treadmill.

She put her purse on her new desk, pleased to note the shiny new plaque it was adorned with. ‘Minnie Johnson’ it said in silver lettering. She sat down, tapped her fingers on the desk. Spun around in the chair, looked at her boss’ office. The wall separating it from the rest of the room was entirely made of glass, therefore she could clearly see inside. Corner office, not small, but not big either; a desk, a chair, some shelves, an armchair in the corner. It kept true to the colour scheme of the entire floor – everything was done is mute shades of grey, every now and then a splash of white. No personal items that she could see, no photographs, only a framed diploma on the wall.  
This Michael Scofield guy was turning out to be a sad sack with no personal life and a penchant for young assistants.  
“Hey, Minnie, right?”  
Minnie flinched and hurriedly turned back around. On the other side of her desk stood…what was the best way to describe her? Yes, a blonde bombshell. Perfect figure, perfect haircut, perfect face. Minnie would’ve hated her instantly, if it weren’t for the warm, friendly smile she was sporting. “I’m Bianca, secretary of Mr Driver’s. I just wanted to welcome you, I guess.”  
“Minnie,” Minnie said, extending her hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who Mr Driver is.”  
They shook hands and Bianca laughed. “He’s only the biggest pervert on this floor!”  
Minnie’s surprise must’ve shown clearly on her face, because Bianca picked up on it immediately. “Really! Ask any woma here, they’ll tell you the same thing.” She parked her tush on the edge of Minnie’s desk and leaned in conspiratorially. “He hired me just so he had something to drool over – I was definitely the least qualified person applying for the job.”  
“If you say so,” Minnie said. “So, he’s the menace around here, I take it?”  
“Most certainly,” Bianca confirmed, clearly happy to have someone to gossip with. “But he’s really mostly harmless. But other than that, staff-wise, this department is probably the best in the whole firm. I have a friend I business development, and her boss runs her ragged. That’s where all the magic happens, you know? Here, we’re in the clear.”  
“Glad to hear that,” Minnie said, wiping imaginary sweat off her forehead with an exaggerated gesture.  
“But who you need to watch out for though, is Ms Elliot, the receptionist,” Bianca continued. “She’s really sweet on Mr Scofield, and narks on everybody on the floor just so she has an excuse to talk to him.”  
When she saw Minnie’s worried expression, she laughed. “Don’t worry, Mr Scofield really isn’t the type to listen to gossip. But I thought you should know, you know, just in case, since you work for him and all.”  
“So…” Minnie started tentatively, “What is Mr Scofield like? I haven’t met him yet.”  
Bianca laughed. “Girl, you lucked out! As far as bosses go, you really couldn’t ask for better. He’s a real gentleman, definitely not a pervert like Mr Driver, he’s young and really handsome, too. Uh, talk about the devil. Here he comes.” Bianca slid from Minnie’s desk. “See you later.”  
Michael Scofield definitely wasn’t the forty years old, balding, bespectacled and limp-wristed paper pusher she’d imagined – the first thing she noted was how young he was. He couldn’t have been older than thirty, was probably still in his late twenties. He was very handsome, with strong, clear features and short cropped hair. He was decked out in a form-fitting, obviously custom-tailored suit that emphasized his tall, lean figure.  
“Ms Johnson?” he asked when he came to her desk. She’d hurriedly stood up as he approached.  
“Yes, it’s very nice to meet you, Mr Scofield,” she said. Wow, his eyes were a really pretty shade of blue. His fingers were long and shapely and his grip firm when then shook hands.   
“Likewise. Welcome to MMS.” His voice was hard to describe, strangely soft and sort of nasally, but with a raspy quality to it; very pleasant to hear.  
“Thank you, sir,” she said.  
There was very little she knew about Michael Scofield, except of course for the fact that he was supposedly the most brilliant structural engineer in the state. When she sorted through the context of his seemingly long-neglected inbox, she realized that there were many people willing to pay a lot to acquire his services on this project or that. She had no idea how much Mr Scofield charged for his time and effort (or indeed if his contract with MMS permitted him to take on freelance work), but the digits were staggeringly high. It seemed that structural engineers and their skills were valued much higher than she’d ever thought.

Time flew by as she pondered over his e-mails, and before she knew it, Bianca was in her face again, a Tupperware box in her hand. “You got your lunch packed, or do you want to go to the cafeteria?”  
Minnie glanced at the time – it was 12:32 already. “Wow, I completely lost track of time. I’d like to go to the cafeteria, if you don’t mind.”  
“No, that’s fine, at least I can show you where it is. God, I still remember my first week here – nobody had shown me where anything was, so I constantly had to ask people. ‘Where are the toilets?’ and ‘Where do we store office supplies?’ and ‘What’s the password for the printers again?’ I drove them up the wall!”  
Accompanied by Bianca’s friendly and unceasing chatter, the two made their way to the firm’s large, but cosy cafeteria. “So, uh, what do you recommend?” Minnie asked as they stood in line.  
“I’d usually get a burger,” Bianca said. “But if you’re vegetarian, the zucchini spaghetti is to die for.”  
“Zucchini it is,” Bianca decided.  
They found themselves an empty table and sat down; Bianca opened her Tupperware container and tucked into a delicious looking pasta salad. “I never have enough time to cook my lunches at home,” Rebecca said. “But that looks really good.”  
“Oh, thank you,” Bianca said. “But I don’t do this because I enjoy it – I’m recovering from meningitis, so I gotta watch what I eat.”  
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Minnie said.  
“It’s not that bad,” Bianca laughed. “On the plus side, I eat really healthily now and I’ve lost almost five pounds in two months. It’s just exhausting sometimes, constantly having to check what you buy and eat.”  
“I know,” Minnie said. “Not that I’ve ever had meningitis, but I’m familiar with dieting. It’s always a nightmare for me, constantly having to check what’s in everything before I buy it and all that.”  
They kept up the small talk for a couple of minutes, before Bianca suddenly straightened in her chair like she’d been tasered with a small gasp. She looked at Minnie, eyes glinting with excitement, and she asked, “Do you know we’ve been robbed?”  
“What are you talking about?” Minnie asked, completely confounded by the sudden change of topic.  
“You haven’t heard then,” Bianca laughed. “Great! I love telling people about this! So, apparently,” she started, shifting in her chair, “the police received an anonymous phone call a couple days ago, during the night. The person calling says ‘There’s a thief in the Middleton, Maxwell and Schaum building!’ So, the police dispatch a couple of cars, but when they arrive, they don’t find any thieves or any signs of them in the building. They look around, too, don’t find nothing.”  
Bianca leaned forward in her chair, her cheeks ruddy with excitement. “But get this – they’re all ready to scrap it and go home, when they find a cop, shot dead in one of the back alleys!”  
“This really happened?” Minnie asked, disbelief plain in her voice. “You’re not pulling my leg?”  
“This really happened!” Bianca exclaimed. “I swear on my mother’s life. The cops came the next day, asking all sorts of question. Mr Driver told me all about it – they questioned him for like an hour. He told me, that they couldn’t actually figure out what, if anything, had been stolen, because it seemed that nothing was missing. I mean, what do we have here anybody would want to steal anyway, right?”  
Minnie nodded; why would some criminals break into an architecture firm? That seemed really strange to her.  
“And that’s not everything, just yesterday Mr Simmons goes to the storage, the archive, right, for one of his blueprints, and the thing’s gone!”  
“You mean it was stolen.”  
“I told Mr Driver that it was probably just misplaced, you know, somebody put in in the wrong cabinet or forgot to file it or something. But Mr Driver said he’d call the police to let them know anyway, just to be sure.”  
“And who’s Mr Simmons?”  
Bianca stabbed a piece of tomato and said, “He’s one of our architects. He designed the Allele building downtown?”  
“That’s the new administration building, right? The one that looks a bit like a strand of DNA?”  
“That’s the one. And the blueprints that got stolen? They were of the Allele.”  
“Why would anyone steal a blueprint though?” Minnie said. “That just seems a bit too kooky to me.”  
“I hear you,” Bianca said. “And I don’t know more than you do. But it’s all terribly exciting, isn’t it? God knows that this firm could use a bit of uproar every once in a while.”

>>>>>><<<<<<

Finished with lunch, Minnie and Bianca rode back up to their floor. Through the glass door Minnie could see that Mr Scofield had a visitor – the two of them were bent over some papers on Mr Scofield’s desk studying them intently. “Who’s that with Mr Scofield?” She asked Bianca.  
“That’s Marcus Healy,” said Bianca. “Another architect. He probably just came to your boss for consultation. Sure does that often.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Nothing,” Bianca said innocently. “You’ll understand, once you’ve been here long enough, that the hiring process here isn’t exactly…strictly based on merit.”  
With that, she turned and left. Minnie watched her long blond hair swishing left and right until she disappeared around a corner. Then she sat back behind her desk and powered up her computer.  
“A new e-mail, huh?” The subject bar said ‘Meeting rescheduled – URGENT!’  
Minnie opened it, and read:

Mr Scofield,  
Mr Elmer from Henegan W&E has rescheduled your meeting from next Wednesday, due to some unforeseen complications at one of his other sights. He wants to meet tomorrow, same place, at 3 p.m. Since the change is so sudden, I’ll understand if you’re unable to attend, but please let me know right away. R. Schaum

Minnie contemplated whether she should wait for Mr Scofield to wrap up the impromptu meeting or not, but in the end, she decided that since the e-mail was not only very urgent, but apparently sent by Robert Schaum himself, she definitely didn’t want to be responsible for any potential delay.  
So she stood up, knocked on the glass door and entered, just as Mr Scofield was saying ‘…and this part will need to be redone, because…”  
When Minnie entered, he stopped mid-sentence and lifted his head to look at her. “Yes?”  
“I’m very sorry to disturb you, Mr Scofield, but you just received an e-mail from Mr Schaum. He says that your next week’s meeting with Mr Elemer has been reschedule for tomorrow, 3 o’clock. I took the liberty of going through your calendar and you have nothing scheduled. Shall I let him know you’ll be there?”  
Mr Scofield didn’t look particularly pleased by the news, but answered positively. “Yes, if you’d be so kind. Is that all?”  
“Yes,” Minnie said. “Again, I’m sorry for interrupting.”  
“That’s perfectly fine, Ms Johnson.”  
He managed to remain very polite, while at the same time being explicitly dismissive. So Minnie turned and left the office.


	4. Hunger Leads the Wolf to the Village

“I want more money.”  
“Forget it. I’ve already given you more than you deserve. You’re a waste of my fries.”  
“Really? You value your career, your precious promotion, so little? I only need to tell one person what I know, and all of that will be in shambles, you know that, right?”  
“You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, amigo. You say one word to anybody, and you’re dead, capiche?”  
“What are you going to do? Threaten me to death? We both know there’s nothing you can do. You and I? We’re in bed now. If one goes down, the other goes down with. So why not make sure we’re both getting what we want out of this deal, before anyone does anything rash.”  
“I give you what you want, you’ll just ask for more next time. You’ll be milking this cow for all it’s worth and when you’re done, you’ll sell me out anyway.”  
“That does sound appealing, I’ll admit, but that’s not how it works between us. You give me the money and I’ll give you the file. The file with all the evidence you don’t want anyone to know about. And then, we can both go our separate ways. How does that sound?”  
“…You got yourself a deal.” 

>>>>>><<<<<<

“Would you like to come with me?” Mr Scofield asked out of the blue. It was 2:15 p.m., Minnie had nothing to do and he boss was leaving the office with his jacket slung over his arm.  
“Go where?”  
“I’m meeting Mr Elmer from Henegan Wrecking & Excavating today. They’re set to demolish a seven-storey building near Grant Park and are having some concerns about the subsoil in relation to the general structural integrity and layout of the building. Since you studied engineering, I figured you’d be interested to see something of what you’ve learned in action.”  
Minnie was genuinely interested in the offer, but still hesitated before accepting it. “Are you sure I won’t be in the way? I have plenty to do here…”  
Mr Scofield smiled; it was a small smile that only seemed to affect one corner of his mouth and looked a bit mischievous, as though the man knew something others didn’t – as though he was letting her in on a secret.  
“The choice is yours, Ms Johnson, but I wouldn’t offer if I thought your presence would be in any way unpleasant or disruptive.”  
“In that case,” Minnie said, “picking up her black striped blazer, “I’ll take you up on your offer. I would truly be interested to see the process in real life.”  
“Let’s go then,” Mr Scofield said.

The car ride was uneventful, filled with some small talk interspersed with periods of silence, which Mr Scofield spent looking out of the window and leafing through a small stack of papers in his lap. “Can I ask you something, Mr Scofield?” Minnie turned to him once he finally closed the file and leaned back in his seat. He turned to her. “Sure,” he said, and his voice sounded at once inquisitive and encouraging.  
“Is it true you wrote the 22 Reasons I Hate Modern Architecture essay?”  
Mr Scofield looked surprised, then laughed. “Wow, starting with the big guns.”  
“Sorry, I…”  
“No, it’s fine. If you don’t mind me answering your question with a question, did somebody tell you that I did?”  
“One of my professors at Loyola. And he didn’t say it, he just…hinted at it.” Minnie hadn’t really meant to ask that question; it’d been bugging her for more than three years, ever since she’d first read the piece, but since the essay and the mystery of its authorship was something of a controversy, such a question could easily be taken as an insult. But she hadn’t been able to help it.  
“Professor Atkins?” Mr Scofield asked. When she nodded, he chuckled. “I’m not surprised. The man was a fierce advocate for modern, and even more for post-modern architecture and he knew I was not that keen on it. Only few people ever challenged him on the topic, and I was among them.”  
“So, you don’t like modern architecture?”  
His eyes glinted when he said “If I say yes, will you take it as an admission of guilt?”  
“Maybe.”  
“Well, from the standpoint of a structural engineer, the best architectonic style is functionalism, because the form is secondary to the function. Functionalists say that a building should serve a purpose, and that its appearance should reflect it. Therefore, little to no attention is paid to its aesthetics and structure takes precedence. But,” Mr Scofield paused, “buildings are not just places we live and work in, are they? Style and function merge, like in any other kind of applied art, to create something that is both functional, and beautiful. Tell me, Ms Johnson, what do you think is the role of beauty?”  
Minnie hesitated. “Does it necessarily have to have a role? Some things are beautiful, some things are ugly, but an ugly mug holds liquid just as well as a beautiful one.”

Mr Scofield laughed. “I can see your Loyola professors were a great influence on you. You’re not wrong, but consider this – beauty is a concept we most commonly associate with other people. There are beautiful people and ugly people. Why? From a biological and reproductive standpoint that doesn’t make any sense, because external appearance shouldn’t matter. So why does it? Because we’ve learned, as a species, that beauty and health are in correlation. And only healthy mates will produce healthy offspring. Are you with me so far?”  
“Well, I wasn’t expecting a lecture in biology, but I’m following, I think.”  
“Why do you think every evil witch in every fairy-tail was ugly, with warts and a big nose and generally distasteful in appearance, while every princess was beautiful? It stems from the inherent belief that was is good on the outside, must be also good on the inside. It’s not true, of course, but the instincts we’ve inherited from our ancestors aren’t easy to suppress. We’ve learned to associate beauty with goodness, and not just when it comes to people, but when it comes to inanimate objects as well. Imagine you’re buying a car, and you have to choose between two. One is bulky, misshapen and asymmetrical, but nothing indicates that it wouldn’t perform well. The other is sleek and very pleasant to the eye. Which one do you choose?”  
“The second one.”  
“Yes, and why?” Mr Scofiel’d eyes were bright and his hands were suddenly very animated, long fingers stretching and bending to illustrate his points. The topic was apparently one he’d given some thought to, because he hardly ever stopped to think about what to say next. “Because you believe it will perform better. But beauty is not just about functionality or health. Beauty is uplifting, seeing and being surrounded by beautiful things makes us happy, we’re attracted to them, sort of like magpies are attracted to everything glittery. And when it comes to architecture, than applies tenfold, but it’s even more complicated than that. To borrow the words of Frank Lloyd Wright ‘The mother of art is architecture. Without an architecture of our own we have no soul of our own civilization.’ What do you think is the greatest piece of architecture in the world?”  
“Angkor Wat in Cambodia.”  
“Considered one of the most beautiful temples in the world. Why do you like it?”  
“Well, it’s at the top of the high classical style of Khmer architecture…”  
“So what?” Mr Scofield interrupted her. “That’s not a reason. Why do you like it? Just say the first thing that comes to mind.”  
“Because it’s monumental, and beautiful, and it just takes my breath away.” Minnie couldn’t help but feel a bit silly saying that – she felt like a freshman again, presenting her opinion to a professor, and already seeing it being torn to shreds by a few well-aimed words.  
“Exactly. Architecture presents a unique blend of functionality, beauty and history that no other art form could hope to capture. When you compare, let’s say, the Taj Mahal to The Shard, the most famous skyscraper in London, arguably one of the most well-known buildings of our time, when you try and compare the almost incomparable, which one comes out on top? Now, I realize that this is a very subjective question, but I’d like to hear your answer.”  
“The Taj.”  
“And I’m sure some people would say The Shard, but the point is, that aesthetics, beauty, matters. Your ability to create places that are meaningful and places of quality and character depends entirely on your ability to define space with buildings, in order to inform us of who we are. And when you degrade the public realm, you will automatically degrade the quality of your civic life. What do you see, when you look at buildings like the Walt Disney Concert Hall in LA, do you see anything meaningful or indeed beautiful? Do you think that looking at it every day would infuse your life with the same kind of positive feelings you have when you look at Angkor Wat? Modern architecture is very self-centred and egotistical. It’s hardly meaningful to anyone but its creators and its proponents are people without any sense of what beauty should be.”  
“Wow,” Minnie said. “I almost felt like I was back at Loyola. Like maybe I should’ve been taking notes.”  
Mr Scofield laughed. “Sorry, uh, I didn’t mean to unload all that on you, but you asked a difficult question.”  
“I guess I just never thought of it that much, Mr Scofield. Modern architecture is not exactly a topic many architects or designers speak out against.”  
“Isn’t that the truth. I’d love to continue this debate, Ms Johnson, but unfortunately, we’re already here.”

It was only as Mr Scofield was pulling out his wallet to pay the cab fare that Minnie realized that he’d never actually answered her question.

The taxi spat them out in front of a dilapidated building, so deteriorated that it seemed to hold together only with the sheer force of will. All the necessary equipment was on standby – big pieces of machinery, like bulldozers and backhoes, as well as big trucks, presumably for the disposal of the debris.  
“At first glance,” Mr Scofield started, ducking under yellow security tape, “demolition is a simple process, isn’t it? A wrecking ball and the job is done. But it does have its difficulties and is generally performed by specialized companies. Mr Elmer, whom we are meeting here today, works for one such company, based here in Chicago. You can follow, it’s perfectly safe,” he added, when he saw her hesitating, eyeing all the warning signs. One such sign proclaimed ‘DANGER, DEMOLITION IN PROGRESS. KEEP OUT.’

“Don’t worry,” he smiled, when he saw what she was looking at. “The demolition has not actually started yet.”  
“Residential demolition usually occurs for one of several reasons,” he continued, when she finally joined him. “To make space for new buildings, or to get rid of constructions that are not safe anymore, or simply for aesthetic reasons. This building, even though it may look very unstable and about to collapse on itself, falls mostly into the first category.”  
He looked at his watch and frowned. “They should be here already.”  
Minnie smiled internally – Mr Scofield would definitely fall into the category of those annoyingly punctual people, who had everything planned down to seconds.

They’d been walking at a steady pace towards the building, for lack of anything else to do more than for any specific reason, when Mr Scofield suddenly staggered to a halt, eyes opening wide and nostrils flaring. “Something’s wrong,” he said. He took a step back. “We should go. Now.”  
His voice, so calm and composed the entire time, now sounded almost…frightened. “What’s happening?” Minnie asked, half amused and half very, very disquieted. “What’s wrong?”  
“I don’t…” Mr Scofield didn’t finish the sentence, because the answer suddenly became very self-evident.

Two large, burly and very unpleasant looking-men suddenly appeared from within the building. They looked…unkempt, to say the least. Dirty, greasy, with torn and dirty clothing. At first glance she’d guess that they were homeless and only after their wallets and jewellery. But something about their movements made her second-guess that judgement. They walked fluidly, almost with predatory grace, and under all that dirt and grime they were clearly strong and healthy, well-fed.

“Run,” Mr Scofield said. “Run.”  
Minnie took a step back, hesitant as she was to turn her back on their would-be assailants. Mr Scofield did the same, expensive shoes crunching on the gravel. “Who are they?” she asked, panic settling deep in her bones. “What do they want?”  
The last thing she felt was something heavy slamming into her from the side, her skin scraping against the rubble as she fell down. Her head connected with something hard, and then she knew no more.


	5. One in a Million

Michael was woken up by unpleasant jostling. As his mind slowly found its way from the muddy waters of sleep, he started taking in his surrounding, and with it came the unpleasant certainty that something was very, very wrong. He was lying down on something hard, which seemed to be moving at a steady speed; he could hear an engine. A car? When he tried to move, he realized with a surge of primal fear that his hands were bound behind his back. The steel bite of handcuffs, even though he’d never felt them around his wrists before, was unmistakeable.  
His eyes flew open in something very close to panic, a muffled gasp escaping his lips. There was something covering his mouth, probably a piece of duct tape, judging by the way it stung and pulled on his skin when he tried to make a sound.  
It was then that the musky, overwhelming scent that seemed to be filling the entire van, finally registered in his brain. The same scent he’d…the same scent he’d smelled on the site before the wolves attacked him and Ms Johnson…Oh God, Minnie. What had they done to her?  
Michael felt himself grow weak and his eyelids were suddenly incredibly heavy. He tried to push himself off of his elbows and into a sitting position, but couldn’t maintain balance and fell to the right, straight into a stack of carboard boxes.  
A voice came from the front – a face suddenly appeared between the seats, before retreating again. “He’s awake,” somebody said.  
“Already? I thought the scent would…” Michael couldn’t make out the rest, his ears were like filled with cotton, everything seemed…far away. His eyes finally slid closed, and in the oppressive, almost sickening stuffiness of the van, he succumbed to sleep.

He woke up again when the van stopped, and two loud slams quickly followed. The back door was opened and sunlight streamed in, almost unbearably bright to Michael’s sore eyes. He stuffed his face into his shoulder and groaned, still nauseated and so very, very weak. He moaned pitifully.  
“Maybe we overdid it,” a voice said. “He’s not supposed to be down like this, is he?”  
“How the hell should I know?” another answered. “It’s not like I have experience with this.”  
“Well, if he throws up, you’re cleaning it up. He looks mighty white.”  
There was a moment of silence. Michael tried his best to concentrate, but it seemed the fresh air, flowing in freely from the opened doors, did wonders in chasing the weariness from his bones. The nausea eased up as well, and he finally felt like he could breathe freely again.  
“It ain’t fair,” Voice 1 stared anew. “It’s not like we couldn’t use an Omega of our own.”  
“Shut up.” Voice 2 seemed remarkably unwilling to discuss that particular topic.  
“Haven’t you thought about it? If only for a second? Just one quick bite, and we’ll have a proper pack.”  
“Me and you and this bitch? I don’t think so. If we do this job right, we’ll have an in with Lechero – and I like that scenario much better.”  
“You got no spine, I’ve been saying that forever,” Voice 1 grumbled, derision clear in the tone. “You’re pathetic.”  
“So, you’d rather take your chances against Lechero, without any back-up, all for a piece of ass?”  
“You’re Beta, you can’t possibly understand. But his scent…it’s pulling me in, it’s so sweet and innocent…” The man took a deep breath, clearly restraining himself from continuing that line of thought. “It’s natural for Alphas to want Omegas,” he added almost defensively.

The last tendrils of that unnatural exhaustion and light-headedness finally relinquished their hold on Michael’s brain and he immediately focused all of its not-insignificant power on getting out of the precarious situation. Whatever their plans with him were – and based on the conversation he’d witnessed, he had a pretty good idea – he was certain he wanted no part of them. He arched his back slightly to take the weight off of his bound hands and splayed his fingers as far out as they’d go, patting the floor within reach. What were the chances of him finding anything useful?  
Lechero. The name rung a bell, but the memory was so faint he couldn’t grasp it. Where had he heard it?  
“Hey!” Voice 2 shouted. “Lie still!”  
Michael craned his neck to take a look at his kidnappers – he could only make out two blurry silhouettes against the bright afternoon sun.  
With his mobility mostly restored, Michael quickly rolled onto his belly and got his knees under him in order to heave himself into an upright position. “What did I tell you?” Voice 2 snapped. “Don’t make me put you under again!”  
Michael looked around – now, fully cognizant, he realized the gravity of his situation more than he had before and was acutely aware that things could get a lot worse really soon. Fighting down a chilling wave of panic rising in his chest, he tried to formulate a plan.  
“Jesus, you’re a beautiful one, aren’t you?” Michael, facing his captors, could finally put a face to the voice. Voice 1, it seemed, was a rather tall and beefy guy with long, stringy bond hair and long face with deep-set eyes and bushy eyebrows. He is an Alpha, Michael’s untrained nose supplied.  
Voice 2 was a brown-haired man with a film of sweat and grime covering his face. His satellite dish of a forehead was marred with three deep wrinkles and a steel stud gleamed in one of his ears. He was bald, but with an impressive moustache that somehow managed to completely cover his mouth, and yet somehow did nothing to disguise his yellow and rotten teeth, visible when he spoke.  
“You touch him, I shank you,” he growled.  
“I can look!” the Alpha said. “And then jack off later,” he added, almost as an afterthought.  
The Beta laughed. “Yeah, I bet copping a feel when we were stuffing him inside was probably the most action you got in months, right?”  
“You act like you been getting some,” the other scoffed, “when we all know you’re basically married to your right hand.”

Even through their bickering, the two of them still kept their eyes on Michael, so he remained sitting on his heels, and thought. He’d heard of Omega wolves being kidnapped, in the same way he’d heard about people robbing banks and terrorists shooting up planes. He never thought that it would happen to him; he hadn’t been in contact with any other wolf in years, almost a decade. The only upside of the whole scenario that Michael could see was the fact that his kidnappers probably had vested interest in keeping him mostly unharmed, at least until they reached their destination.  
Michael made a show of slowly swaying on his knees and then keeling sideways, crashing limply to the floor, moaning pitifully into the gag.  
“Hey, whoa!” the Alpha exclaimed, leaning over him and turning him over onto his back. “What’s wrong!? Joe, what’s with him?!”  
“Thanks for saying my name out loud, jackass,” Joe growled. “And I’m sure he’ll answer you with that tape over his mouth.”  
“Right.” The Alpha turned back to Michael and none too gently tore the tape from his lips, leaving a trail of stinging skin in its wake. “C’mon, talk to me.”  
“Water,” Michael croaked. “Please.”  
“Sure thing,” the Alpha said almost dazedly and disappeared, presumably to fulfil the request.  
“And how about you rub his fucking feet too, while you’re at it,” Joe snarled at him. “Fucking pussy-whipped asshole.”  
“We don’t know what the pheromone overload did to him,” his companion’s voice drifted from the front of the van, accompanied by rustling sounds. “And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to present him to Lechero half-dead.”

When he returned, a water bottle in his hand, he twisted it open and held it close to Michael’s lips. “C’mon, drink,” he said, lifting Michael’s head up. The water tasted somewhat stale, but Michael still swallowed a few mouthfuls, before turning his head away to indicate he was done. “Where are you taking me?” he asked. “What’s going on?”  
He directed the question towards the Alpha, who seemed more inclined to talk. He opened his mouth as if to answer, but then promptly closed it and glowered, as though Michael had been trying to trick him. “Keep your trap shut.” He leaned in, well into Michael’s space, and poked a finger in his chest. “Remember, you got nothing coming.”  
“Who’s Lechero?” Michael asked. “Why are you afraid of him?”  
The Alpha’s hackles rose. “I’m not afraid! But you- you should be!”  
“Why? What does he want with me?” Michael purposely kept his tone calm, meeting the other wolf’s eyes head on, like a challenge he hoped the Alpha wouldn’t be able to help stepping up to.  
“Nothing you won’t enjoy…eventually,” the man grumbled angrily. Almost jealously.  
“What does that mean?!” Michael snapped, rising to his knees.   
“You’re one stupid bitch, aren’t you?” the Alpha snapped. “What use could an Alpha like Lechero possibly have for a pretty Omega like you?”  
It didn’t exactly come as a surprise, but to have those suspicions confirmed still sent a chill racing down Michael’s spine.   
“Stop the chit chat,” the Beta suddenly snapped, as the sound of a car engine pierced the air. “Let’s go.” He gripped Michael by the shoulders and pulled him rather carelessly out the van and onto the asphalt. “I’ll go with,” the Alpha said. “You dump the van.”

They were on some forgotten back road, weaving between dilapidated buildings, maybe factories shut down several decades ago at least, and Michael felt simultaneously elated, because they were, as far as he could tell, still in Chicago, and frightened, because their journey clearly didn’t end there.  
Joe climbed into the van, cranked up the engine and drove off. “Where are you taking me?” Michael demanded, trying to tear himself away from the Alpha’s firm hold. A rusty black car was approaching them, and considering their previous words, Michael had no doubt they were there for them; for him. “Tell me!”  
The Alpha didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled out the piece of duct tape and glued it back over Michael’s mouth. “Keep your trap shut,” he advised. “Lechero won’t be so lenient.”  
The car pulled up beside them; Michael could feel the man’s fingers trembling slightly, where they were clamped like a vice around his forearm.  
“Well, well, well,” a man said, climbing out of the passenger’s seat and leaning against the hood. “You actually managed to do something right.” His accent was strange, with broad vowels and a lilting sound. “I never thought I’d see the day.”  
The man was African American with a lean fighter’s physique and dangerous air around him; he was an Alpha, that much was obvious not only from his scent, but from the way he walked, the way he held himself. He was on top of the food chain and he knew it.  
He grabbed Michael roughly by the chin and tilted his head this way and that, inspecting him from all angles. “Not bad,” he said appreciatively. “Not bad at all.” He patted Michael’s stomach and grinned. “A pretty pooch like you is certainly worth the effort. I’m almost sorry I didn’t thank Hector before I killed him.” He chuckled, as though it was the best joke in the world, and Michael shuddered. That someone was able to talk that casually about taking another man’s life, as though it didn’t matter…it turned his stomach.  
The man’s dark eyes seemed to burn into his; he lowered his gaze instinctively, and he chuckled, as though it was something Michael was supposed to do. As though it was some kind of a test. “Their scent is all over you,” he murmured. “It’s sickening. But I’m sure you’re sweet…under all of that musk.” He reached out again, stroking his hand down Michael’s arm. His scent flared when they touched, clogging Michael’s nose.

Having grown up among humans, in Chicago’s less-than-stellar foster system, he knew he was ill-equipped to read a wolf’s tells, regardless of their designation. It was something he’d never thought he’d need; he kept to the company of humans and the idea of being in contact with other wolves, or joining a pack, never really appeared to him, no doubt thanks to his upbringing. It was made even worse by the fact that even though his conscious mind did not, his body definitely did know what to do and he couldn’t suppress its natural reactions, because he didn’t even know they were coming. Showing weakness was hardly a thing he could afford, but provoking his captors probably wasn’t the best idea either. They were probably under orders not to harm him too severely, but he couldn’t afford to introduce any more inhibiting factors into the situation.  
“In the trunk,” the man commanded, and before Michael knew it, he was being pushed into the small, stuffy space. He had to curl up into a little ball in order to have some space and closed his eyes against the oppressive darkness, breathing shallowly. Dark, small spaces were never his favourite place to be – his childhood trauma had never actually developed into a full-blown claustrophobia, but he was still probably more nervous than was appropriate, breaking out in cold sweat and shivering all over.  
Should he attempt an escape, it was very unlikely that he would succeed. He had virtually no idea where they were, and even though he knew which direction to go in, he would soon be caught anyway. He had only his two feet, they were in a car. If he were to shift, presuming he could do it, they had all the advantage on their side. Getting the cuffs off, opening the trunk and then jumping out of a moving car…he’d be back in their hands before he knew it. Maybe if there were other people around, raising alarm would be enough to scare his pursuers off. But it was a shot in the dark, a slim chance Michael didn’t feel comfortable relying on.

But what was his other option? Lying docilely in the car, waiting for them to retrieve him and drag him off toward whatever they had planned for him? And then what? Even if he was declared missing and investigation were to be launched, he’d probably be deep within his new Alpha’s clutches.  
The handcuffs around his wrists were rather loose, definitely not loose enough to slide off, but probably enough for what he had in mind. It took some wiggling, but eventually he was able to reach into his pocket and pull out a paper clip. He hooked his fingernails into it and straightened it out slowly, taking care not to drop it. Only relying on sense of touch, he felt around the cuffs, until he located the casing and the point where the ratchet teeth disappeared into it. If his assumption was correct, all he had to do was…  
He placed the paper clip, his makeshift tension wrench, there carefully, making sure that it wouldn’t slide off, and pushed on the ratchet, sliding it into the casing, feeling the straightened-out part of the paper clip disappear inside along with it, and thus making the cuff tighter around his wrist. He counted off four clicks, which he thought should be enough, before putting pressure onto the clip, prying the cuff apart from the inside. For a second, it refused to give. Then it slid apart, easily as anything, and Michael let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding during the entire process.  
It took some wiggling, but eventually he was able to get both of his arms in front of himself and stretch them out, rolling his shoulders and groaning in relief, as the tension dissipated from his muscles and tendons. He didn’t bother sliding the other cuff off; now that his hands were loose, he had other priorities. He let the useless cuff dangle down from his right wrist and focused on feeling around the trunk. When his fingers found the edge of the moulding, he stuck them under and pulled it away, feeling around for the lock. He had to manually unlatch it, which was not something he was certain he could do, especially not in the dark.  
What his fingers encountered, though, was not something he was prepared for. The lock…it didn’t feel normal. There weren’t any cables, nothing for him to work with. Could it have been altered, covered by some sort of casing to make it impossible to unlatch from the inside? He felt around it again, to make sure, but unfortunately, he hadn’t been mistaken. There was no way he was getting that trunk open.

Well, onto plan B then.


	6. Until It Tears Your Soul Apart

When the car finally stopped, Michael had no idea how long he’d spent locked in the dark, cramped space of its trunk. He was almost drenched in sweat; the heat was stifling, almost suffocating, and he felt as though the space around him had progressively been getting smaller and smaller, until he almost couldn’t bear the weight of his prison cell pressing against every inch of his skin.  
No matter how distracted his body may have been, by all the sensory input fighting for its attention, his mind paid it no attention. There was hardly anything for him to do but wait for his moment, but that didn’t stop his brain from churning everything he knew about the situation, every piece of data he’d managed to collect, through its powerful machinery, until a disconcerting vision of the future was painted vividly before his eyes. To whatever unsightly or demeaning end his journey might be heading, its very possibility served as more than enough incentive for him to think of a way to get out of his current predicament.  
He'd done the best he could with the lock, but there was no knowing if his efforts were fruitful. Now, the only thing left for him to do was wait. Wait, listening to the steady purring of the engine, feeling the trunk vibrate slightly around him, as the car continued on its journey.  
Car stopped, engine puffed slightly and went silent. Every muscle in Michael’s body was tense, his heart beating a mile a minute, his breathing sped up. When he heard one door slam closed, he clenched his eyes tight and prayed…if only one of them left the car, his plan was over before it even began. Second door slammed shut.  
Footsteps, loud like gunshots to Michael’s oversensitive ears, two sets of them, circled around the car. Michael didn’t waste a second longer and pulled his legs in, pressing them against his torso until he could no longer breathe; he knew he was going to need a lot of momentum. He kicked out, throwing his entire weight into the movement. The back seats gave way under the force readily, folding forward, and Michael started sliding his way through the gap as quickly as he could. Fear and the knowledge of how little time he had made his muscles wobbly and his movements less-than-precise, but adrenaline gave him laser-sharp focus and a clear mind.  
His captors tried to open the trunk – even as he kept scrambling onto the back seat, he listened frantically.  
“The trunk won’t open!” one of them shouted. Michael thought it was Sammy – that accent was audible still, even with his voice as muffled as it was. “Piece of junk!” he exclaimed, presumably referring to the car. The vehicle jolted slightly; Sammy must’ve kicked it.  
“What the fuck’s wrong with---son of a bitch!”  
With the trunk still closed, nothing obstructed their view of Michael, who had already reached the back seat and was not wiggling through the gap between the front seats. “Bastard!” Sammy cursed, circling around the back of the car quickly and grasping for the nearest door, which was…locked as well. “Open that door right now, you bitch!” Sammy yelled, pounding onto the glass, out of his mind with anger. “Or I’ll snap that pretty little neck of yours!”  
He turned to his Beta and growled “Find something to break the window with!”  
While the other man scrambled to obey, Michael finished his crawl through the car and noted with relief that the keys were still in the ignition. He didn’t have the first clue about how one would go about hotwiring a car, and not enough time to do it either. The engine roared to life.  
“You left the keys?!” Sammy yelled, out of his mind with anger. “You worm!”  
The car took off. Fortunately for Michael, the car was parked on a street, not in a garage on any kind of permanent parking spot, otherwise he probably wouldn’t have been able to get away quickly enough. But as it was, there was nothing stopping him from speeding off down the narrow street, watching in the rear-view mirror as Sammy threw himself bodily at the Beta, slamming him into the ground. It seemed that Sammy, hot-headed as he was, was willing to waste precious minutes punishing a subordinate who’d made a mistake, instead of going after the escapee without delay.  
He executed a sharp right turn and lost sight of the two. Englewood was to him a completely uncharted territory; having never been there, he could only guess which way to go and wasn’t exactly keen on stopping and asking for directions. All he knew was that he had to get away, as far and as quickly as possible, because not only wouldn’t somebody who’d invested a lot of time and risk into having Michael brought to him give up that easily, Michael suspected that Sammy would take his escape as a wound to his own pride; a slight that couldn’t possibly go unpunished.  
Suddenly, a long and loud howling pierced the air; the sound was angry and wild and Michael shivered involuntarily. His kidnappers were still in pursuit, and something told Michael that in this race, he wasn’t going to make it very far.  
>>>>>><<<<<<  
“I’ll give you fifteen hundred.”  
“No way, it’s worth at least twice that!”  
The clerk picked up the watch lazily, turned it over in his hand. “Maybe,” he said. “But I pay what I pay. Take it or leave it. And something tells me,” he smirked, “you’ll take it.”  
The pawn shop was on the narrowest of narrow streets, tucked between an auto repair shop on one side, and a dilapidated old house, which once upon a time used to be a bakery, on the other. It was owned and manned by a single man, a tight-fisted old widower who didn’t have anything better to do than to sit behind the counter and count money. With his low prices it was a wonder anybody ever came – but if this neighbourhood had an overabundance of something, it was people down on their luck. Somebody always came, and today, it was Lincoln.  
However, unlike most of Mr Hammond’s customers, he wasn’t there selling a precious family heirloom with tears in his eyes. Tweener, who was allergic to anything even remotely resembling work but had remarkably quick hands and nimble fingers, had swiped it off of some random passer-by on the street. When Lincoln saw the piece, he knew that Tweener must’ve ventured out of Englewood again; nobody in this neighbourhood was strolling around with a time piece as fancy as this on their wrist. There were people around willing to cut off a man’s hand just to get their hands on something this valuable.  
They were hard on cash, again. And as much as Lincoln hated to admit it, the clerk was right. “Alright,” he nodded tersely, displeasure clearly written into every line on his face.  
“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr Burrows,” Mr Hammond said, reaching under the counter and pulling out a rusty box with an old-fashioned lock on it. When he noted Lincoln’s surprised expression, he giggled. “No need to look so surprised, you were quite the celebrity for a time, if I recall correctly.”  
Lincoln winced; he didn’t like to be reminded of his less-than-stellar reputation among the human population of Chicago. People in Englewood hardly care about news from ‘the outside’, as they called it, so it was rare that somebody would recognize the name or his face.  
The man pulled out a small key that was hanging on a fine silver chain from his frail neck. “I do wonder though,” he said, opening the case, “if that prize money is still on the table.” When he saw Lincoln’s expression, he laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m just jesting! You’re my best customer, after all!”  
In Lincoln’s opinion, there was very little a man like Mr Hammond wouldn’t do for a ten-thousand-dollar reward, including giving up his own parents for the electric chair. So, needless to say, from his position as his alleged ‘best customer’ he wasn’t feeling very secure.  
“Listen old man,” he growled. “You tell anybody, and I’ll put a bullet in your head.”  
“Why not just do it now?” the man inquired, opening his money box and reaching inside. “Eliminate the threat?”  
“Don’t provoke me or I just might.”  
Mr Hammond didn’t look intimidated in the slightest. With a strange smile, he pressed a couple of stale bills into Lincoln’s hands. “Please do come again,” he said.  
Englewood was filled with thieves and liars and murderers and nobody trusted anybody as far as they could throw them. It was hard to find a job when your employer wanted to spend every moment standing behind you and looking over your shoulder to make sure you weren’t stealing from them. Which made Lincoln, with his short temper and random bursts of rage, almost unemployable. Mahone, still in mourning of his big, cushy government job wasn’t exactly inclined to go work for that sort of people he was used to putting behind bars. In fact, the only one from the entire group who had a somewhat stable job was Manche, who wasn’t exactly inclined on sharing with the rest of the class, socialist style.  
Lincoln wasn’t exactly a stranger to using less-than-lawful means of obtaining money. After everything that’d gone down, there was only one thing he’d sworn never to do again, that thing that’d got him into trouble in the first place. And that was to borrow money from loan sharks.  
Even after all these years, he could still feel the desperation that’d driven him to committing the worst mistake of his entire life. He was innocent of the murder they were trying to pin on him, but the fact was, that he’d gone into that garage that night, a fully loaded gun in his hand, intending to commit murder. He had every intention of putting one right between the man’s eyes – but somebody had got there before him.  
It was a set-up, it had to be. The only thing he couldn’t understand was why Crab Simmons would give ninety grand just to watch him fry in the electric chair. Regardless of how much the two of them disliked each other, Crab would always put money before any sort of personal vendetta. The only thing he could think of that would make Crab do something like this was if he got a better offer from somebody else – when he saw on the news all the evidence that was found against him, all the evidence planted against him, he knew that he’d been right. Someone had invested a lot of energy and money into making Lincoln appear guilty. And in the eyes of the public, that’s what he was. Even without trial.  
When Lincoln stepped onto the street, he immediately detected a change in the air. It was subtle, but something that spoke volumes to his sixth sense; wolves on track, circling their prey, always gave off a unique scent. It was a blend of viciousness and excitement that resonated within Lincoln into his very core. Even now, with his animal instincts fully under control, he felt the pull deep in his belly. The pull to join, the pull to pursue and hunt down and sink his teeth into his quarry’s flesh, feel warm blood gushing between his teeth.  
Another howl answered from the other side. They had their prey surrounded, it didn’t have any way to go.  
Suddenly, a rusty red car appeared around the corner, rushing down the street at a break-neck pace. It blasted its way through a hot-dog stand and drove on, accompanied by the enraged yelling of its owner. Various dents and scratches decorated the car’s sides – evidence of other previous mishaps, and either the driver’s carelessness or his desperation. As it made its way towards Lincoln, honking angrily at anything and everything standing in its path, Lincoln tried to catch a glimpse of the man behind the wheel. It seemed that he was dressed in a dark suit, with a white shirt and a tie – there weren’t very many of those striding around Englewood, much less participating in car chases. As the car drove past, Lincoln caught a tantalizing whiff of the most delicious scent he’d ever encountered. A faint hint of it lingered in the air and he inhaled hungrily, something wild and primal stirring deep in his chest. The urge to claim, to possess took over his entire being and saturated him to his very core, until he could scarcely move with the tight grip of uncontrollable desire clamping around him like a vice.  
An Omega; and Lechero’s wolves were after him. He’d tried not to think about Hector’s cowardly display and the information he’d attempted to exchange for his life. An Omega, he’d said. Real pretty, too. He’d probably hoped that Lechero would let him go – and while giving into self-preservation instinct was something Lincoln could definitely understand, he still couldn’t condone Hector’s actions. Offering other man’s neck instead of his own was hardly praiseworthy, but what Hector did seemed to Lincoln far more vile – he must’ve known what fate the Omega would be met, should Lechero ever get his hands on him.  
Lincoln had hoped fervently that the Omega would never have to suffer such a fate. But it seemed that those hopes had been for naught.  
A wolf appeared in front of the car, crouched low and snarling. The driver, probably instinctively, seeing an obstacle, slammed on the brakes and the car stopped with an ear-splitting screech, leaving long skid marks behind.  
The car was immediately surrounded by a mass of wolf bodies, snarling and scratching at the doors. They were out of their mind from the scent, long lines of drool were dripping from their maws and they looked ready to tear the Omega inside apart.  
Sammy, the black, muscles wolf, shifted and hefted a brick from the sidewalk. When he approached the vehicle, the wolves parted for him like the sea did for Moses; he smashed the glass and reached inside, uncaring for the jagged edges of the glass scraping against his skin and thin lines of blood running down his arms. A scream sounded from the car.  
Sammy opened the door and dragged the driver outside.  
>>>>>><<<<<<  
Michael breathed fervently through his mouth, keeping two fingers firmly clasped around his nose. As much as the stink had served its purpose, he felt almost lightheaded from the permeating smell of stale urine and other unpleasant substances; Michael wasn’t exactly keen on inspecting their origin.  
He’d given the man all of his clothing, including his shoes, but didn’t receive any in exchange, since his trading partner’s attire was sorely lacking in that department. The cobblestones were still pleasantly warm under his feet, soaked with the warmth of the day, but the air was already getting colder, a promise of the evening chill.  
The only thing he’d been wise enough to keep was his wallet – he’d been careful to keep that out of the man sight, even though he seemed over the moon just with the change of clothing and the car. Granted, it probably wasn’t everyday a well-dressed man jumped out of a car and offered to change his tailored suit for the smelly, disgusting rags of a homeless man. And when he threw the car keys in his face, the man had seemed seconds away from fainting. “Drive!” Michael had screamed. He pressed some bills into his hand. “Here you go, and drive!” He’d basically pushed the man into the vehicle, when he couldn’t seem to catch on quickly enough.  
The homeless man’s clothing did wonders for disguising Michael’s natural, enticing scent that would otherwise be guaranteed to catch everybody’s attention. And since that was exactly the opposite of what Michael wanted, he was more than grateful for the quick wardrobe change. But he was having trouble keeping the contents of his stomach where they should be now, and nausea wasn’t exactly welcome when one was on the run.  
He had no idea how much time his ruse would buy him. He had to get out, and he had to get out fast, otherwise all of this would’ve been for nothing.  
When he found a payphone, he ran straight to it, and was already digging through his clothes for his wallet before he realized he didn’t know who to call. Who among his small circle of work friends would agree to come pick him up in Englewood, especially considering he had no idea where he was? No, even if they agreed to help, he didn’t want to put anybody else in danger as well – they’d be relieved of their car and possibly their life by the first thug with a gun. And they were probably dime-a-dozen in this neighbourhood.  
He dug out a quarter, pressed it into the slot and dialled 911.  
“That won’t work,” somebody said, directly behind him. Michael spun, heart beating mile a minute, panic already setting in. But instead of an enraged wolf, with bared fangs and poised to take him down, he saw a boy, probably not older than eleven or twelve, with his arms folded over his chest. “The phone,” he clarified, when Michael didn’t say anything. “It doesn’t work.”  
He was dirty. His face was decorated with dark smudges, his knees and hands weren’t faring much better. His clothing was dirty and torn, but still faring much better than Michael’s current attire.  
“Are you homeless?” the boy asked.  
Michael shook his head. “No.”  
The boy tilted his head to the side and sniffed. “You smell like you are.”  
“That’s the idea. Listen, is there a working payphone around here?”  
The boy nodded. “I can take you, mister” he said.  
Michael nodded. “That would be very kind of you.” The boy nodded and reached out a hand, palm upwards, in the universally unmistakeable sign.  
Michael hesitated, before pushing a ten-dollar bill into his palm. He couldn’t exactly see the harm in giving the boy some money, he probably really needed it. But something clenched in his chest at the thought that a young boy had to learn to behave like this, in order to survive.  
The boy quickly stashed the bill away and then pointed down the street. “It’s this way, follow me.”  
They walked side by side, Michael and the boy, who would occasionally sneak a glimpse of him and sniff the air. “What are you, mister?” he asked curiously uninhibited.  
“Where are your parents?” Michael asked, not wanting to go down that path. He wanted to know the boy had someone who took care of him, even though he knew it was unlikely, considering how wild and unkempt he looked. “I don’t know,” the boy shrugged his thin shoulders. The question clearly didn’t bother him, if anything, he seemed rather puzzled by the concept of ‘parents’ or why should he have any.  
Michael, who remembered so little of his own parents, could somehow relate to that sentiment. Forced to grow up way before his time, he knew what it was like to take care of himself from a young age. But, even though the circumstances of his childhood had been less than ideal, he felt almost hesitant to compare his situation to his companion’s. Even when things had been at their worst, he’d always had a roof over his head and could count on three meals a day. It seemed to him that the boy had never known such luxuries in his short life.  
He told himself that there was no point in comparing who had it worse – regardless of how little you had, how bad your situation was, there would always be someone with less, someone who had it worse than you. And even though Michael had never been given anything in his life, had never received anything he hadn’t deserved, he felt lucky, so very lucky to be where he was now. To have achieved what he had.  
“We’re here, mister,” the boy suddenly said. Michael looked around. There were no payphones in sight.   
“Are you…” When Michael finally caught the scent and sensed movement behind him, it was already too late.  
“Thanks, kid,” the man said and Michael’s entire world went black.


	7. Bury Me in All My Favourite Colours

The first thing he became aware of upon waking was ice cold water flowing freely down his face and soaking into his clothes, pooling in the hollow of his throat and leaving goose bumps in its wake. The second thing his confused, muddled mind registered was a strong hand closing around his windpipe, obstructing the air flow and making him choke.

His eyes flew open – his head was held back and he was left staring at the white ceiling above. His arms came up, trying to shove his attacker off. “I could snap your neck, just like this,” a familiar voice drawled into his ear. The hand on his neck tightened minutely and Michael wheezed. “I ought to, for what you did.”  
Michael kicked out blindly, and his foot came in contact with soft flesh. The voice cursed, but the hand didn’t loosen. “Still you fight,” he drawled. “Lucky for you, I can’t harm you...too bad.”  
His attacker pulled away and Michael sat up. Sammy was towering over him, a smarmy grin firmly in place, with his hands folded over his chest. In his expression the structural engineer found nothing but resentment, malice and cruel satisfaction.  
“What do you want from me?” Michael said. “Why are you here?”  
“Don’t you want to know where you are first, boy?” Sammy grinned. “Aren’t you scared?” He inhaled deeply, eyes briefly closing. “You smell scared.”  
“Does Lechero know I gave you the slip?” Michael asked. “Is that why you’re here? To make sure I don’t talk?”

Michael was naked; a fact he became aware of slowly, with the uncomfortable realization that the only thing covering him were the blankets - he bunched them over his lap to make sure they wouldn’t slip and provide Sammy with a nice eyeful. The bed he was sitting on was unpleasantly soft, he wobbled with each movement and bounced every time he shifted his weight. The room was small, with barely any furniture and no personal items or decorations. The walls were bare, the floor too.   
He dug his fingers into the sheets, breathing deeply. He fought viciously against a wave of desperation that threatened to overwhelm him and swallow him whole. As all the possible scenarios this situation could escalate into ran through his head, it was all he could do to keep his face blank. What Sammy sensed from his scent, he didn’t know, nor did he bother trying to control his body’s visceral, primal reaction to the unquenchable fear that took hold of his heart.

Sammy was angry – it showed in the bunching of his muscles, the tick in his eye, the sudden spike in his scent that made the Omega cower instinctively. The Alpha was clearly only barely holding onto his control, and Michael knew that he was walking a fine line. One wrong step and Sammy will go off, his primary Alpha’s orders be damned. “You will keep your mouth shut, if you know what’s good for you.” Sammy kept his finger pointed at Michael’s face, as though the gesture lent him some more authority, a strange emotion mixing into his expression. Michael had no idea how valuable he was to Lechero, and while the pains the man had gone through to secure this “meeting” certainly indicated that it his worth wasn’t insignificant, he couldn’t rely on that to get him out of this situation.  
“You’ll what?” Michael fired. He refused to back down, show weakness or fear, knowing well what that would mean to a man like Sammy. If he gave an inch now, he would never stop stepping back and bowing down.

Michael had his pride. He cared very little for his Omega instincts, screaming at him to give in and submit. He was human when it mattered – having grown up among humans and heeded to a completely different set of societal standards his entire life, his pride would not be able to stomach a defeat, let alone one dealt by a man like Sammy. “What can you do to me you haven’t already?”  
Sammy grinned. “You have no idea.” His voice was full of dark promise, and his eyes raked down Michael’s half-naked body. “The pain and pleasure I could inflict on you, little Omega.” His gaze burned Michael’s skin, his desires plain to see. Longing, lust, anger, vicious need to claim, possess and destroy, to stomp his enemy into the ground and annihilate them – it all swirled in its depths. Urges as old as the world itself, visible in the eyes of a man controlled by them, possessed by them.  
Michael, in calm and level voice, said “Give it your best shot.”

There was no way he could take the man in a fight – but he’d heard what Sammy, consumed by rage and lust, had clearly missed. A set of footsteps approaching.  
Just as Sammy let lose a threatening growl, out of his mind with anger, and lunged at him, the door flew open and there stood Lechero. Even having never met or seen the man, his presence was unmistakeable to Michael. His aura, his scent…it all spoke to him on a primal level. This was the man of the house. This was the Alpha he was to belong to.  
“Down!” Lechero barked and Sammy dropped like a stone, his knees cracking against the floor. His eyes shone yellow, his extended claws leaving deep trenches in the wood. The bend of his head, the submissive arch of his back…his complete surrender to another was beautiful and terrifying to watch and the mere realization that had that force been directed at him, he would be on the floor next to Sammy, left Michael both nauseous and exhilarated. The idea of letting somebody have that kind of power over him thrilled him, even as uncontrollable disgust at the mere concept almost made him heave. No person should be subject to another person’s whims like this, he thought.  
You like it, a voice within him whispered. You hate that you do, but you do anyway.

He knew in that moment he was staring into the deep abyss that had forever divided his mind. The isolation of his more animal side, the very thing that had given him peace of mind for all these years, was now breaking him apart. The wolf in him, malnourished and on the brink of death, had sensed its chance and was clawing hungrily to the surface, fighting for its right to live. It was howling, desperately and with indescribable longing, for all it had been denied, for the ownership and control of his mind. For the first time in his life Michael was confronted with the consequences of locking the animal inside him away, for locking it so deep its very existence had slipped his mind. And now that doors had been broken and barriers torn down, he was left with the painful certainty that after all the damage he’d inflicted, his mind would never be whole again.

“Leave my sight!” Lechero said in disgust, looking down on his secondary Alpha with nothing but contempt in his eyes. “Now! You’ve disappointed me one too many times, Sammy.”  
The Alpha slinked away, with the proverbial tail tucked between his legs.  
Michael was gripped with the irrational urge to call after him. No, don’t go! Don’t leave me with him! he wanted to shout. For the thirst shining within Lechero’s eyes was one of an entirely different kind, one Michael didn’t know how to fight. Where Sammy had been shrewd and his thoughts easily derailed, Lechero was smart and single-minded; where Sammy’s thirst for blood had eclipsed everything else, Lechero’s desires were just as base, but ones Michael dreaded infinitely more.  
Helplessness sank deep into his bones – he knew that this fight was over before it even began, he knew that there was nothing he could do. He was drowning in Lechero’s eyes, fear gripping his insides in an icy grip. He lost control over his body completely, his muscles loosened against his will and he fell back against the mattress, unable to move or think.  
Lechero’s fingers were warm against his skin as they brushed away the tears he hadn’t been aware he was shedding. “Don’t cry, beautiful,” he said, and his voice was gentle and soothing. “Look me in the eye again.”

Michael’s gaze was drawn, by some power other than his own, to Lechero’s face. To take one’s will away…Is there anything worse than this? Could there be anything worse one can do to another person? he thought, as he felt his mind grow muddy and unfocused.  
“You’re so beautiful,” Lechero said. “The most beautiful bitch I own.”  
Michael jolted. Those words, they burned, and he moaned. “Let me go,” he groaned. “Let go!”  
His ears rang from the slap he was dealt. His face remained turned to the side; he could only blink dazedly, watching the wall in a cloudy haze. “Don’t worry,” Lechero leaned in closer, his breath washing over his neck. “You’ll like it just fine in a minute.”

When Lechero’s teeth sank into his neck, Michael screamed. It wasn’t the pain, it was the sudden knowledge that something important, something that was only supposed to belong to him was suddenly torn away from him, leaving a gaping wound that would never close. An acute sense of loss, so strong it took his breath away, was all he could thing about. It gave him strength to momentarily break from his stupor and attempt to push the larger man off of him. Desperation pumped strength into his weakened muscles and he succeeded, only to fall back against the bed, exhausted to his very core. “What have you done?” he murmured. “What have you done to me?”  
He couldn’t move, could scarcely breathe. He lifted a hand, pressing it over the bloody imprints in his neck. A bonding bite? Warm blood, his blood, flowed between his fingers, soaking the sheets under him. Even as his mind tried to deny it, he knew that it was so – the Alpha’s venom burned, stinging and freezing his flesh, numbness and nausea spreading through his body.  
Something sang in his blood, something new and so very, very foreign, cold and hot at the same time. “You’re mine,” Lechero whispered, leaning over him once again, petting his head like dog. Michael’s entire being rebelled against the idea – but his mind couldn’t seem to force his tired body to react. That voice was back in his head, talking, singing, joyful and wild. Claimed, owned! Don’t fight, submit!

And it would be easy, so easy. So easy to just give up and stop fighting, to surrender to his kidnapper, to the man who called himself Lechero, who was the strongest Alpha Michael had ever met. Who was worthy, who would protect him give him strong, healthy pups to carry.  
At that thought, Michael lurched to the side and threw up all over the floor. He was shivering, cold sweat breaking all over his body. “No!” he screamed out, echoing the shout resonating in his mind. A desperate, useless denial.  
Lechero’s hands were all over him now, pulling away the sheet and running down his body, squeezing as they went. “Good, very good,” the Alpha murmured possessively. “You’re a treasure. Just look at you.”  
Strong hands gripped his hips, turned him over. Hands on his back, stroking down his spine. When they reached the swell of his ass, the soft touch turned into a stinging slap. Grating laugh rang out. Spots danced under Michael’s eyelids, his stomach turned again. When the first of the Alpha’s fingers plunged into him, he realized that he was wet, he was leaking slick as though he was enjoying it, as though his body was welcoming what was happening to it and asking for more.  
Lechero suddenly gripped one of his arms and wrenched it from under him. Left with only one arm to support himself, Michael wobbled and then fell face-first into the pillow, back bowing, spine arching. “Look what you do to me,” Lechero said, placing Michael’s hand on his hard cock. To Michael the member seemed intimidatingly large, and disgust and fear overcame him in him equal measure. And yet, that little rebellious part of his brain urged him to grip tighter, to pull harder, to give the Alpha the pleasure he deserved.  
“Feel it, beautiful?” Lechero asked, leaning over Michael and pressing his chest into the Omega’s back. “It’s all for you.”

As he spoke, second finger joined the first. The squelching sounds they were making were loud enough for Michael to hear clearly; he could feel the excess slick he was producing running down his legs and he uttered a small scream of shame when Lechero’s fingers brushed over his prostate and some of the natural lubricant squirted out of him.  
How could any part of him be enjoying this, he thought, as the first wave of intense pleasure rushed through him. Self-hatred threatened to overwhelm him, when he caught himself swaying his hips to fuck himself onto Lechero’s fingers. His mind was…murky, his thoughts unclear and hidden even from him. That, possibly more than anything, scared him. He was used to always being in perfect control of his mental faculties – the loss of that and the consequent loss of inhibition, sparked a fear within him he’d never known before.  
Pleasure had somehow become the focal point of his existence. Pleasure at the hands of the Alpha, whose pheromones were almost just as heady as the physical sensations themselves and while Michael simultaneously wanted to wrench himself away and fight, he also wanted for it to never stop.  
“That’s it, Omega,” Lechero praised, curling his fingers to find Michael’s prostate again. “Just let go, I know you want it.”

With a particularly vicious stab of his fingers Michael groaned, flinching forward and scrambling onto his elbows. “S-stop,” he whispered. “No.” His elbows couldn’t support him and he fell back down, groaning.  
“You’re so tight…I can’t wait to be inside you.” Lechero’s voice was silky, deep…heat shot up Michael’s spine when it spilled over him like a caress. And yet it grated, it was almost physically painful to hear and Michael barely contained a scared whine when the words finally registered.  
The fingers pulled out suddenly and Michael felt two hands grip his hips, then slide upwards over his sides and his ribcage, until they came to rest on his shoulders, pressing them further into the bed. “I have every Omega in Englewood,” Lechero whispered into his ear, leaning over him. “I’ve bonded them all, they’re all mine. Wretched, ugly little things, most of them.” He rolled Michael over onto his back again forcefully, grabbing him under his chin, making him gasp in surprise and lean his head back in an uncoordinated effort to escape the hold. “But you…you’re from the outside, you’re nothing like them.” He leaned in, licking a wet stripe from Michael’s cheek all the way to his hairline. The Omega shuddered in disgust, kicking his legs out uselessly.  
Lechero laughed, as though his prey’s struggles delighted him. “You fight even after I’ve claimed you, Omega. But make no mistake, I will break you. I will break you and you will stay broken, to stand, sit or crawl as I command.”  
He tightened his hand, Michael gasping for air. “I like the pain in your eyes.”  
Lechero let go then, bringing his right hand, the one still coated in Michael’s natural lubricant, to his mouth. “Your slick tastes divine, treasure. I can’t wait to taste all of you.”  
The Omega, overcome with desperation and fear, surged forward. Curling one hand into a fist, he punched Lechero across the face, bucking his hips in an effort to throw the man off. Lechero did lose his balance for a moment, but soon righted himself again, anger and desire clouding his eyes in equal measure.  
Michal, still trapped under the man’s body, spat into the Alpha’s face.

The Alpha’s musky scent spiked again, anger clearly overriding lust this time. “You little bitch!” Lechero growled, wiping the saliva away. “You’ll pay for this!”  
Michael yelped as he was rolled onto his front again, nausea overcoming him again. Then, his beautiful blue eyes flew open, filled with pain, and it was all he could do to swallow the loud scream of shock and pain bubbling in his throat, as Lechero entered him from behind, thrusting deep mercilessly, not giving Michael any time to adjust. It felt as though he was tearing around Lechero’s cock, that his body couldn’t possibly withstand the stretch. “Get…out!” Michael gasped, dry-heaving from the pain. “Stop!”

His head was pushed into the pillow again, his screams muffled. “You need to learn…your lesson, little Omega. Pain is all you get when you…fuck with me.”  
His last words were punctuated by another hard thrust, and Michael felt Lechero slipping impossibly deeper, invading his body in a way that sickened him to his very core.  
He was soft, could never get hard from this, but the occasional spike of pleasure, when Lechero’s cock brushed against his prostate, was enough to bring the self-loathing back. It lurked in the back of his head, straddling the barrier between his conscious and unconscious mind, taking advantage of Michael’s muddled, fuzzy thoughts.  
Every nerve in his body seemed to be screaming in pain as Lechero moved in and out of him, single-mindedly chasing his own pleasure, staking a claim to Michael’s body, just like he’d claimed his mind. “You’re mine now,” Lechero said, and his voice was full of malice and vicious glee, and it felt like acid against Michael’s broken thoughts. He gasped with every thrust, swallowing sounds of pain, trying to hold onto his sanity.

How is this happening to me? he thought over and over again. Why did I allow this to happen?  
When Lechero’s fingers pushed into his mouth, keeping it open, Michael clamped his jaw on them, feeling blood burst onto his tongue. Lechero cursed, pulling the digits away. “There’s still fight in you I see,” he said, wiping his bloodied fingers into the pillow next to Michael’s head. The coppery scent of blood, the Alpha’s blood, turned Michael’s stomach. Alpha is wounded! the Omega inside him screamed, guilt churning deep in his stomach. I did this!  
Lechero’s thrusts grew impossibly even harder, his hands were gripping Michael’s hips painfully, his growling making Michael shudder. “I will fuck the rebelliousness right out of you, Omega,” the Alpha promised. “A disobedient dog is of no use to me, after all.”  
“God, you’re so tight,” he continued, pushing himself deeper still and stilling his movements. “You’ve never let anyone else take you before, have you? Thought you were better than everyone else, am I right?”  
He pulled out, rolling Michael’s limp body over and pushing his legs apart. “I own you now!” he laughed, taking the Omega’s body in, possessiveness blazing in his eyes maniacally. Michael was not exactly buff, but his body was long and lean, stomach flat and firm arms nicely toned. Lechero ran his hands down his long legs, stroking over the soft, hairless skin. “And you’ll do well to remember it.”  
He placed his cock at Michael’s entrance, pressing gently, but not pushing in. “Beg me,” he commanded. “Beg me to fuck you.”  
Their eyes met, Michael’s offering nothing but resistance. “Go…to hell,” he moaned. “I am not yours! I will never be yours!” His words, spat in useless denial, sounded hollow and fake to his own ears, but he had to say them. He refused, refused to give in, knowing that there was little else Lechero could take away from him, and he wasn’t about to offer what was left of his pride and dignity on a silver platter for the Alpha to steal as well. “I will never…belong to you.”

This time, the scream of pain could not be contained, as Lechero angrily shoved himself deep again, his cock pushing past Michael’s entrance like a battering ram, conquering and breaking down every single one of the Omega’s defences. Too angry to even speak, Lechero took his fury out on Michael’s body wordlessly, pulling Michael’s hips into his lap and clamping his teeth over the fresh bonding bite. White hot pain consumed the Omega’s entire body and he screamed and screamed and screamed. 

>>>>>><<<<<<

“Yes,” Rupert said in a broken voice, “Yes, it’s her.”  
Minnie lay on the examination table, white as the sheet that covered her from her toes to her shoulders. He’d barely recognized her, she looked so small, so frail…so empty. And yet, no matter how much he wished it, he couldn’t deny that it was her. He couldn’t deny, no matter how much he wished it, that she was dead. Her eyes, always so full of life and joy, were closed, eyelids almost translucent, blue veins clearly visible under the thin, soft skin. Her face seemed…drawn in, full of sorrow in a way it’d never been when she was alive. He reached out without thought, to touch her, full of ridiculous hope that this was all just a horrible, horrible nightmare, only to pull away like he’d been stung. Her skin radiated cold.  
His eyes were drawn against his will over and over again to that large, gaping wound in her neck. The more he averted his eyes, the more he couldn’t seem to pull them away from the torn, bloodless flesh.

As the coroner pulled the sheet over her face again, Rupert felt a light hand land on his shoulder. “I am sorry for your loss, Mr Sanders,” the detective behind him said. “But I’m afraid we still need you to answer a couple of questions for us.”  
Something in Rupert clenched in anger when he heard the overly patient words, and had to harshly reign himself in to keep his reaction internal and to not let the emotion control his actions. He and the policeman had a similar goal, after all – to catch whoever had done this to Minnie and leave them to rot behind bars. “Yes, of course,” he croaked hoarsely.  
“Don’t worry, it won’t take long,” the detective said. “But first, we’re going to need a blood and saliva sample from you.”  
“Why?” Rupert asked. “Isn’t one or the other enough for a DNA test?” The fact that he was actually a suspect didn’t exactly surprise him. He’d read somewhere that about 70 percent of homicides were actually committed by family members or friends of the victim, and he knew that the police could hardly ignore such an obvious avenue of investigation just to spare his feelings.  
“Usually, yes,” the coroner said, pulling out a fresh test tube and a cotton swab. “But Ms Johnson was killed by a wolf.”  
The wound. The jagged edges. Rupert’s eyes widened in horror. He’d hard of cases like these…but didn’t random wolf attacks usually come with…?  
“Don’t worry,” the coroner hurried to assure him, “we found no traces of sexual assault.”  
Rupert felt tears gathering behind his eyelids. “Sure,” he said, offering up his arm. “Take what you need.” He couldn’t believe what he’d heard, couldn’t believe he hadn’t put it together himself, couldn’t believe that something this horrible had actually happened to his sweet, beautiful Minnie. He still couldn’t believe that she was dead.  
“First the saliva sample please,” the coroner said, offering him the cotton swab. “Just swipe the inside of your mouth.”  
Rupert did as he was told. He hardly felt the sting of the needle as it pierced his skin and drew his blood. As the syringe slowly filled with the crimson liquid, he looked away.  
“We found saliva in the wound,” the coroner answered Rupert’s unspoken question as he worked. “and blood under the victim’s fingernails. That’s why we need both. In case they don’t match.”  
Before Rupert could voice his confusion over that last remark, the detective stepped in and interrupted. “All done?” she asked gruffly, as the coroner pulled the needle out.  
“Sure. You can expect the results sometime tomorrow.”  
“This way please,” Mr Sanders, the detective beckoned and Rupert went, pulling his sleeve down absently.

“How long have you and Ms Johnson lived together?” the interrogation began. They were in a small room, like something out of a bad TV show, complete with the one-way glass on the wall in front of him. The detective had her back to it, and he couldn’t help wondering if there was anybody behind it, studying his facial expression and body language for any sign of dishonesty or deceit.  
“Five years, we’ve been living together for three.”  
“No problems in the relationship?”  
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”  
The detective was a short-haired black woman, possibly in her late thirties or early forties, with piercing, perceptive eyes. “And what is ordinary, Mr Sanders?”  
“We argued, sometimes badly, but we loved each other,” Rupert said, angry that she was being purposely obtuse. “I was going to propose.” Tears stung his eyes again and he sniffled. “We were going to get married.”  
“Do you have any idea what she was doing at that excavation site?” The detective leaned forward, her features perfectly bland, carefully disinterested. As though what she was asking about, or his answer, didn’t really matter.  
“It must’ve been work related,” he said. “But she didn’t tell me anything about it.”  
“Ms Jonson worked for an architecture firm her in Chicago, is that correct?” she asked, flipping through a thin file on the desk between them.  
“Yes, Middleton, Maxwell and Schaum. She only started a couple days ago.” Rupert pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his wet eyes. “She was so happy that she got the job. I was so proud…” He sobbed, pressing his face into his hands.  
“I understand this must be hard for you,” the detective said in a tone that suggested she did not understand at all. “I have only a few more questions.”  
Rupert nodded, a gesture she apparently interpreted as “go on”  
“To your knowledge, was there somebody she had disagreements with, somebody who might’ve wanted to hurt her?”  
Rupert shook his head. “Nobody. Minnie got along with everybody, she was…she was…everybody liked her.”  
Her eyebrows rose in a polite expression of disbelief. “In my experience, Mr Sanders,” she said, “nobody gets along with everybody. Think about this. Are you sure? And also, were there any wolves in her group of friends, among her co-workers?”  
“No, no wolves,” Rupert said. “She would’ve told me if there were any.”  
“What about money?”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Ms Jonson’s aunt died recently, if I’m not mistaken,” the detective said. “and your girlfriend was the sole benefactor of her will.”

Rupert laughed wetly. “Please, who’d kill for a couple hundred dollars? Minnie’s aunt wasn’t exactly rich.”  
The detective ruffled through the file. “We have a list of everything the late Mrs Wellington owned right here,” she said, pulling out a sheet of paper and sliding it towards him. “So, either you’re lying, or your girlfriend wasn’t quite honest with you.”

>>>>>><<<<<<

Even before Michael fully regained consciousness and opened his eyes, a horrible stench permeating the air almost made him topple over. Heaving, he leaned forward, vomiting up clear bile. A strange buzzing was filling his ears and he shook his head to clear it.  
His eyelashes were clumped together; when he finally opened his eyes, bright sunlight flooded his vision. It was noon. How long had he slept?  
He was sitting on something hard, leaning against a pillar of some sort, with his hands tied behind him with thick, rough rope. Stinging pain in his ass, which shot up his spine whenever he shifted, reminded him mercilessly of the previous events and as he recalled everything that’d happened, he felt his skin crawl. When his eyes finally adjusted and he could open them fully and take in his surroundings, his stomach protested again.

At first, he could hardly believe what it was he was seeing. Everything in his mind, his entire body, seemed to rebel against the image seared into his brain – the enormous, unnecessary cruelty of the scene was something he could hardly conceive, even after everything that’d been done to him in this place. A wooden tub was sitting not even ten yards from him, and the stench rising from it was making Michael feel lightheaded. Now that he knew where it was coming from, he heaved again, not even stomach acid coming up this time. In the tub was a man, clearly unconscious, every inch of his skin covered in something black. At first glance, Michael hadn’t been able to tell what the strange substance was…until he realized that it was moving. Moving, shifting, and some places almost seemed to thin out occasionally, before filling back in, as though the thing was…alive.

Flies. Thousands and thousands of them crawling all over the man’s body, feeding off of his body. Some of them would briefly take off before coming down again, their monotonous, continuous buzzing sounding like a drill in the back of Michael’s head. “Oh god,” he whispered. “Oh god.”  
The man must’ve been out there for days, stewing in his own juices…literally. The stench surrounding him was made that much worse by the man’s own excrements, mixed together into a disgusting liquid under him. More flies were crawling all over the inside of the tub, feasting on it.  
Michael hoped fervently that the man was dead. A fate this horrific couldn’t equate in his head to any crime this man could’ve possibly committed; nothing he’d done could’ve made this sickening, inhumane punishment justifiable.  
“Somebody, go wake up that scum!” a voice yelled. “He’s dozing off again.”  
Michael turned his head around to see Sammy standing in the shade of the building, arms folded over his chest, red headscarf adorning his head. Their eyes connected briefly, and Sammy’s annoyed expression morphed into a satisfied smirk.  
“Comfortable, blanco?” he laughed.

A young boy was making his way hesitantly to the tub and the man in it, plugging his nose and breathing in through his mouth. The boy couldn’t have been older than seventeen, with unwashed black curly hair and torn red basketball jersey. In his right hand, he carried a bucket and a long stick – Michael wasn’t quite sure what the bucket was for, but the purpose of the stick wasn’t that hard to determine, even before the boy leaned over, standing as far as he could from the man, and poked him with it once, twice, three times, before the man slowly regained consciousness.  
Immediately, he let out a pained screech, that ended in hacking cough. His entire body convulsed and shuddered, dislodging the flies minutely. The all took off into the air as one, revealing the man’s red, blistered skin. The wounds were discoloured, full of puss, clearly festering and Michael’s stomach turned once again, observing the destroyed skin and mangled flesh. The flies began to sit back down slowly, one by one, and the man swatted at them uselessly, shuddering in revulsion. “Please,” he croaked through cracked lips. “Please.”  
The boy put the stick down and pulled his fingers away from his nose. In his expression were mixing pity and disgust, as he grabbed the bucket, one hand at the handle, other at the bottom, and upended it quickly over the man’s head, clearly struggling not to throw up at the horrible scent. A liquid, milky substance splashed all over the man and even through the horrific smell Michael’s nose caught the unmistakeable, sweet scent of honey.

“Enjoying the view, blanco?” Sammy said. He’d approached him when Michael’s attention had been diverted from him, and was now standing right next to him, eyes fixed on the horrifying spectacle in front of them. “You should be.”  
Michael’s eyes were firmly fixed on Sammy’s face – even as his mind immediately recalled Sammy’s attack, he found him infinitely easier to look at that the poor, dying man in the tub.  
“Why?” he asked. “What do you mean?”  
“Is the name Hector Avila familiar to you?”  
Michael frowned. “Should it?”  
“He was a janitor at the company you worked for, you tell me,” Sammy grinned. “He’s the reason you’re here.”  
Michael’s eyes reverted to the sad figure. The man, Hector, was still flapping his arms weakly, making incoherent, desperate sounds. His eyes, against his will, looked for any familiar features – could he have seen this face before? Was Sammy telling the truth?  
“He told us where to find you, to save his own skin,” Sammy continued, laughing as though it was all a big joke. And to him, maybe it was. “What do you think about his punishment now? Fitting, ey?”  
Michael shook his head slowly. Images of the previous day’s events flew through his head, the horror, the desperation, the pain…but even as the fresh bite on his shoulder stung with every movement of his arm, he could not bring himself to hate the man. Even though he’d suffered through Hector’s actions, no part of him wished for this cruelty to be inflicted upon him, much less in his name.

“I want him freed,” he said. “It was me who was hurt through his actions. I want him freed.”  
Sammy looked at him, for the first time in something else than lust of anger. His eyes were full of mockery. “Nobody cares what you want, snowflake,” he said. “And even if we did, look at him. He’s a dead man walking.”

Sammy crouched next to Michael, tracing his finger lazily over the bite on his shoulder, smiling as the Omega couldn’t quite contain the hiss of surprised pain. “Aren’t you wondering why he’s just sitting there? Why he hasn’t tried to escape? There’s nothing tying him down.”  
Michael’s crystal blue eyes narrowed, looking into Sammy’s, searching for the answer. “He’s too weak,” he said. “He wouldn’t be able to even stand up, much less walk or run.”  
“We cut the tendons in his thighs,” Sammy grinned, fingering the blade of a knife tucked behind his belt lazily. “Hamstringing, I believe it’s called. Poor bastard just crumpled to the floor, screaming like a little bitch.” He smirked, looking Michael over. “Like you.”  
“I heard you, through the door, you know” he continued. “How you screamed in pain as Lechero fucked you. Did you enjoy it, puta? I know you did.”  
Michael caught a glimpse of something in the depths of Sammy’s eyes. “Not as much as you would,” he retorted. He knew he’d been right when Sammy flinched violently, reeling back in something that resembled shame.  
“You bitch!” the he then yelled, punching Michael across the face. Blood welled up in the Omega’s mouth. He spat it out, something close to satisfaction burning deep in his belly. “You close your mouth,” Sammy hissed, pushing his face into Michael’s. “Before I close it for you.”

Michael squeezed his eyes shut as Sammy walked away. He didn’t want to look at Hector, the man who’d drawn him into this mess, didn’t want to see him get slowly eaten by flies. He didn’t want to feel the pain in his shoulder, the throbbing deep inside his body, the sickening sluicing of his stomach. Didn’t want to hear the incessant buzzing of the flies, Hector’s hoarse voice pleading for death, Sammy’s voice giving orders to people he couldn’t see.  
Instead, he curled his fingers around the knots on the ropes and began to quietly work them loose.


	8. In The Lights of Our Own Making

“I begged him not to take this job,” Mrs Hudson sobbed, unable to stave off the tears anymore. “I knew something like this would happen. I knew it.”  
Henry Pope watched the grieving woman over his desk, knowing all too well that there was nothing he could possibly do to ease her pain. Nothing, but to bring her husband’s killer to justice.  
“Mrs Hudson,” her said slowly, hesitantly. “Do you have any idea what business your husband could’ve possibly had in Englewood? Any at all?”  
She looked up, fresh wave of tears spilling over her cheeks. She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “He’d promised he wouldn’t…” she trailed off. Her eyes were two dark pools when she said “You won’t investigate, will you.”

Henry felt crushed under the weight of her gaze and of his own guilt. “Bob always spoke highly of you,” she said. “’Henry Pope is the only good chief left in the whole of Chicago’, that’s what he would always say.” She stood up, stuffing her handkerchief into her purse. “If only he could see you now.”  
When she left the office, Henry let his head fall into his hands. His shoulders sagged, his entire body seemed smaller and curled in on itself, weighed down by the truth of her words. After forty years on the force…was this the legacy he was to leave behind?

Somebody knocked. “Boss,” Bellick’s voice sounded through the door. “You’re going to want to see this.” When Brad had escorted Mrs Hudson in, he’d looked like a beaten dog – in his eyes Henry could see his own guilt looking back at him. It’d been Bellick who’d recommended Bob for the job after all, who’d vouched for him and put his neck on the line for the man. And now that Bob was dead, Bellick felt responsible, even though the blame was not his to bear.  
When Bellick came in though, there were to traces of guilt or sorrow to be found in his eyes. “It’s from the coroner,” he said, waving a thin manila folder around in the air. “Page 6,” he said, slapping it onto Pope’s desk with gusto.  
“And is he certain of this?” Henry asked after reading the page in question thoroughly.  
“Said he checked three times,” Bellick said, sprawling in a chair and hooking his thumbs behind his belt. “Couldn’t believe it myself when he showed it to me, but there it is.”  
“So, it seems you were right after all,” Henry said, frowning at the folder. Exactly what he needed, at exactly the right moment. It seemed almost too good to be true.  
“That I was,” Bellick said, satisfaction oozing from every pore. “So what’s gonna happen now, boss?”  
“We go after the bastard, Brad,” Pope said, resolutely closing the folder and taking off his reading glasses. “He killed one of our own.”  
“But what about the feds?” his second-in-command frowned, his distaste for the FBI plainly visible. “I heard they’ve been sniffing around. Won’t they want a piece of this?”  
“I’ll handle them,” Henry answered. “This falls clearly under out jurisdiction, there’s no reason for the FBI to get involved.”   
“I’ll go get my shotgun ready,” Bellick said, getting up, eyes gleaming. “Burrows won’t know what hit him.”

>>>>>><<<<<<

As the sun steadily rose in the sky, the air got progressively hotter and less and less breathable. It was filled with small particles of sand and dust that seemed to grate against Michael’s windpipe and lungs whenever he inhaled, and often sent him into a fit of coughs. His mouth was dry as a desert, and droplets of sweat kept running down his forehead and neck, soaking into his dirty dress shirt.  
“Thirsty, bitch?”  
Michael looked up; somebody was looming over him. The only thing Michael could make out against the overwhelming brightness of the sun was a blurry black shadow, but a quick scent check told him the man was a Beta – among the unpleasant, sour smell of sweat and unwashed skin, he recognized those subtle, bland undertones that were neither Alpha nor Omega; just something in between.  
The Beta was holding a glass of water; from his tone Michael could clearly tell that the man had no intention of actually giving it to him, and so he didn’t grace the query with an answer. He had no desire to give the man more ammunition to taunt and tease him than he already had. Michael guessed he had to make a rather pitiful sight. His clothing was dirty and sweat-stained, and the fact that he was still dressed in a fine shirt and nice charcoal suit pants only seemed to amplify their sorry state. He was barefoot – Lechero hadn’t bothered to give him his shoes back.  
When Michael’s head turned away from him in a clear dismissal, the Beta’s scent spiked slightly in annoyance. “I’d think about my answer if I were you,” he hissed. “I won’t offer again.”

“Why don’t you give him some?” Michael asked. The man in the tub, Hector, was so weak he could barely move. The combination of his festering wounds, the horrible, sweltering heat and lack of food and water had clearly brought him to the end of his rope. He wasn’t moving anymore; every time Michael looked at him, he thought the man was dead, but every time a small movement or a quiet sound betrayed the last shred of life.  
“Him?” the Beta scoffed, looking over at Hector with a gaze full of scorn. “That’s just cruel, baby. He’ll be dead soon – why prolong his suffering?”  
Michael knew it; he had no idea why he’d made that suggestion in the first place, but it certainly wasn’t out of desire to help the man. Even if what Sammy had said about Hector was true, and Michael of course had no way of knowing that, there wasn’t any part of him that wished the man dead – nobody should go out like this. He did feel some measure of compassion, as he would for any other person in Hector’s position, but his empathy was largely dulled by the fact, that from the very first moment he saw him, he’d known the man was going to die. There was nothing Michael could do to help; he very much doubted that all the medical attention in the world would be enough to bring Hector back to life.

“Suit yourself, bitch,” the Beta snapped, when Michael didn’t react. He overturned the glass over the Omega’s head and laughed as cool liquid splashed down onto his head and shoulders. Michael couldn’t quite contain his surprised hiss – his overheated skin didn’t take to the cold sensation very well, but as the water slowly dripped down his body, he found the feeling far from unpleasant. “When you’re thirsty though” the man hissed, “don’t come to me.”  
He turned away from Michael, as if to go, but then seemed to change his mind and leaned back over him with a strange smile on his face. “Save me a dance, won’t you darling?” he said, his voice all dulcet tones and false sweetness, no trace of the earlier derision to be found. Michael’s eyes rose up to the Beta’s face almost against his will; squinting against the sun, he tried to make out as much of the man’s expression as he could. “It gets lonely sometimes.”  
Michael shuddered; whatever the man was talking about, it didn’t bode well for him. It seemed that the Beta knew something he didn’t, and the implications were enough for sour feeling of dread to rise up in his belly like a tidal wave.

Mindlessly he pulled at his bonds – his wrists throbbed, the only thing he had to show for all his efforts to get out of the ropes looped tightly around them. Regardless of how much he pulled, how hard his fingers tried to reach the complicated knots and pull them apart, he hadn’t managed to actually get anywhere. The sudden surge of fear in his chest drove him to tug at them again and he barely swallowed a gasp at the sharp throb of pain.  
“Such a pretty thing,” the Beta said as he finally turned to leave. “It’s almost a shame.”  
Before Michael could ask to what he was referring, a pained scream pierced the air; Michael stiffened, swivelling his head around, looking for the source of the unexpected noise. He didn’t have to look for long – moments later, a wolf stepped into the enclosed yard through one of the two access gates, dragging behind him in the sand a struggling, screaming figure. Both by the shrill screams and by the long, dark hair, Michael was able to ascertain that it was a woman – her clothing was bloodied and torn, the wolf certainly wasn’t being very gentle with her. It had its maw clamped around her shoulder, tugging her along unceremoniously, clearly not caring one bit about injuries inflicted.  
Soon after the first wolf entered a second one, and then after them a third – there was something about the third wolf that captured and held Michael’s attention, and he found himself unable and unwilling to look away, tracing the wolf’s fluid movements with his eyes. The creature was smaller than its two companions, its fur was a mixture of brown and grey. It was a combination that Michael found strangely distasteful, just as the wolf’s oily scent seemed to glide along his skin and leave behind an invisible stain. The eyes were yellow and cruel – it was impossible for Michael to determine the wolf’s designation, and this time he was unwilling to chalk it up to his muted senses. There seemed to be something about the wolf that threw him off; a particular component of his scent he couldn’t place, that defied designations.

Then, without any warning, the wolf shifted, and in its place stood a short, wiry man with compact muscles and floppy brown hair. He seemed completely unashamed of his nakedness and utterly comfortable in his own body – it was that kind of confidence Michael would normally find captivating and admirable, but when displayed by this man, that very same character trait he’d always been attracted to suddenly repulsed him, as though this particular man was the last person on earth who had any business feeling cocky. “Lechero!” the man yelled. “We got you a little present.”  
His smile was amused, more than anything. Where Michael would’ve expected satisfaction, some measure of cruelty or thirst for blood, was only a barely-there smirk, small, deep-set eyes glinting above it in perverse humour.

The “present” seemed to struggle now even more viciously, screaming to high heaven and trying to push the heavy wolf body off of her, regardless of what pain it must’ve been causing her, considering the creature’s teeth were still embedded in her flesh. Crimson rivulets were streaking down her bared shoulder, where her t-shirt had been pulled down in her futile struggle. Then, she suddenly froze, her chest heaving, as though she was inhaling deeply. She began sobbing even harder after that, repeating over and over Hector’s name like a mantra.  
Who emerged from the depths of the building wasn’t Lechero, but Sammy. The man stalked closer, pheromones wafting off of his body with overwhelming intensity. “What do you want, Bagwell,” he growled.  
“Why don’t you call me ‘Theodoro’, like Lechero does, Sammy, huh?” Bagwell smirked, his entire body falling into a fighting stance that was in stark contrast to his relaxed words.  
Bells rang in Michael’s head. Bagwell, Bagwell…where had he heard that name? Theodoro Bagwell? It couldn’t possibly be, could it…Theodore Bagwell?  
“What do you want?” Sammy repeated. It was clear to even the most unobservant, both from the way they talked and from their body language, that the two were hardly each other’s biggest fans. There seemed to be only some sort of invisible leash, probably their loyalty to Lechero, that was holding both of them back from tearing the other’s throat out in a fit of rage. Their scents intensified and clashed as well. Was Bagwell and Alpha then? Even still, with the man’s scent so concentrated in the air around him it was practically crawling down Michael’s throat on its own, he couldn’t be sure.  
“We found this,” Bagweel nodded towards the woman, who was now wailing in anguish, trying her best to reach Hector, “dawdling around the premises. I figured I had better bring her in for Lechero to look over.”  
His words were accompanied by some exaggerated hand gestures and his voice was an unpleasant mixture of servility and self-important boasting. Michael had no doubt that should Lechero have bothered to greet them himself, he would now be witnessing a completely different side of the man’s personality. The one that grovelled at the feet of its betters, begging for scraps from their table like a dog.

“Hector!” the woman screamed again, voice clogged with tears. “What have you done to him, you bastards?!”  
The wolf shook his head, jostling her entire body with the movement, and her voice trailed off in a painful moan. “Who are you?” Sammy inquired, coming over to her, suddenly interested.  
“I’m his sister,” she sobbed out, barely able to lift her head and look at him from where she was pressed into the sand. Her limbs flailed uselessly as she struggled and then something crunched and she screamed again, falling out of the wolf’s jaws like a rag doll, one shoulder completely limp. She lay on the ground, whimpering softly in pain, and the wolf stood over her, blood dripping from its maw.  
“Piss off,” Sammy said and the wolf complied, trotting over to its companions.  
“What have you done to him?” she repeated, her words barely audible.  
“What he deserved,” Sammy said. “He is a sorry excuse for a wolf, it’s fitting he will die like one.”

Michael’s attention kept skipping between Sammy and the woman, and Bagwell, who hadn’t bothered to get dressed and stood by with his arms folded over his chest, as though he was watching an amusing spectacle he didn’t mean to take any part in, but which he was nevertheless thoroughly enjoying. Michael wasn’t particularly interested in the man, but he did find strangely disconcerting that his own presence hadn’t attracted the man’s attention yet. His two companions, even in wolf form, were showing a clear interest, sniffing around him and scenting the air heavily, but Bagwell’s attention hadn’t wandered over to him once. Michael couldn’t find it in himself to believe, that his scent had evaded the wolf’s senses – which meant that either Bagwell truly wasn’t interested in him in the least, or his utter dismissal was just a front he was putting on.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” the woman spat. “My brother is a good man, you have no business saying otherwise!”  
Her words were punctuated by her unceasing effort to get back up again and face Sammy, even though her blood loss and the pain she must’ve been in were probably significant.  
Sammy chuckled. “I’m not saying anything,” Sammy said, raising his arms slowly in mock surrender. “Mr Scofield over there, though? He sure has something to say.”  
Upon hearing his name, Michael stiffened. He definitely hadn’t been expecting to be drawn into this discussion, even though in light of the recent revelation, he probably shouldn’t have been surprised, since Sammy’s attitude towards his presence here was strange to say the least. The fact that he was none-too-pleased about it was a no-brainer, but there seemed to be some sort of instinctual protective instinct at play as well. Of course, Sammy did a great job of suppressing it, and yet it seemed that Hector’s actions, giving up an Omega the way he had, had evoked some sort of righteous anger in Sammy – anger on Michael’s behalf. As strange as that sounded, Michael was convinced that wolves, driven by natural instincts so much more than the human population, were still tightly bound by the subconscious drive to protect Omegas at all costs. Even though on personal level Sammy would’ve probably liked nothing more than to tear Michael’s throat out with his teeth, he couldn’t quite shake the pull of nature stirring in his bones.

The woman’s eyes snapped to him. They were wide, surprised, but Michael had no idea what was going on in her head. “An Omega?” she murmured, something defeated creeping into her tone all of a sudden. “What are you talking about?”  
“Your dear brother,” Sammy smiled, “exchanged his own life for him.”  
She seemed at loss for words. Her mouth opened and closed, as though preparing to say something, but no sound came out. “Why haven’t you released him then?” she asked after a moment, her eyes never leaving Michael’s face. “You obviously got what you wanted.”  
“And you approve?” Michael heard Sammy say. “Bartering with Omegas like that?” He tutted disapprovingly, even though the sound was in stark contrast to the glee clearly displayed on his face.  
“Let him go,” she hissed, clearly gathering the last remnants of her strength. “I don’t care what you say he did or didn’t do, I…” Her sentence ended in a gasp; Sammy had grabbed her by the neck, cutting off her air supply and bringing her closer to him.

“You seem to think you’re in charge, but you should’ve thought twice before coming here,” he hissed into her ear. “Your scumbag of a brother definitely wasn’t worth it.”  
Before she could say another word, Sammy curled his fingers like talons, claws already extended, and…plunger his hand into her belly. She screamed, probably more in shock than pain, as his hand disappeared in her stomach up to the wrist, blood gushing from the horrible wound like wine from a perforated barrel.  
He twisted his hand, the flesh and intestines making stomach-turning squelching sounds as he did so. “What do you have to say now?” he mocked, as she weakly grasped his wrist to try and pull it away from her. “I wouldn’t do that, I if were you,” he admonished. “What I’m holding right now feels important – something tells me you want it to stay where it is.”

Michael felt simultaneously captivated and repulsed by what was happening – as sickening as he found the display, he couldn’t find it in himself to look away. When the realization of his emotions penetrated his conscious mind, he was filled with self-loathing. What could possibly possess him to feel anything other than horror at the unimaginable cruelty? What kind of animal instinct overtook him?  
“You can still heal,” Sammy said. “If I don’t rip anything out, that is.” She gasped, swaying in her place, face ashen white. “Have you learned your lesson?”  
She nodded; the movement was so small it was almost imperceptible.

Michael couldn’t shake the feeling he was watching a game of cat and mouse; there was nothing the woman could say, nothing she could do, to reverse Sammy’s decision about her fate, whatever that decision might entail. He was just toying with her – wanted to play with her mind as well as her body.  
“What do you think?” Sammy turned to one of the wolves, who were still loitering about, and of course unable to answer. “Should I let her live?” Bagwell didn’t even attempt to give his opinion on the matter, nor did he look like particularly cared either way.  
No answer was offered then, but no answer was expected. “I don’t think so.”  
A shoe will make a strange, wet, soft popping sound when its wearer, having stepped into a deep puddle of mud, pulls it out. The sound the poor woman’s innards made, as Sammy began pulling them out of her body, was not dissimilar. Her soft gasps turned into horrified screaming again, as she watched her intestines slipping through his hands; they created a pink, squishy puddle in the sand. Michael turned his head away. Whatever perverse fascination had momentarily taken over his body before, it was gone now, and it was all he could do to keep himself from throwing up. Even though his stomach was empty, it still rebelled against him, and he clenched his eyes shut.  
Sammy, his hands covered up blood up to the elbows, stood up over the disembowelled body. “Let’s see how long you’ll last, shall we?”  
She was still breathing.

As soon as Sammy disappeared, Bagwell turned to Michael, his gaze suggesting that he’d indeed been very aware of the Omega’s presence the entire time. He swaggered closer.  
“Enjoy the show, pretty?” he asked. Michael didn’t deign it with an answer. His brain felt like scrambled eggs, as though having been a witness to something so horrible and gruesome had completely warped his previously steady and unshakeable view of the world. What hadn’t been damaged by the reality of his own situation was now crumbling down like a house of cards. He felt as though it wouldn’t take much more than a strong breeze to completely throw him overboard.

“You be Lechero’s, right?” Michael, try as he might, still wasn’t capable of discerning the man’s designation; his Omega seemed to be deeply unnerved by that. “You’re just as pretty as advertised,” the man continued. “Prettier even.” He clicked his tongue, grinning like a cat that got the cream. “Too bad I already got a girlfriend. Otherwise I’d snap you right up.”  
“You’re Theodore Bagwell, aren’t you?” Michael asked, finally lifting his head and meeting the man’s muddy brown gaze.  
“I see my reputation precedes me,” he grinned. “But call me T-Bag, please. You and I?” he gestured between them, “I have a feeling we’re gonna be real close, pretty.”  
Michael didn’t answer, wasn’t even looking at the man anymore. T-Bag followed his gaze. “It’s nasty, ain’t it?” he said, nodding towards the woman’s body. “She’s still alive, too.” Michael flinched and the wolf grinned. “He only tore out the intestinal tract. She’ll live for a couple hours or so.”  
“Why?” Michael asked quietly. “Why did he do it?” He wasn’t really aiming that question at Bagwell, more at the world in general, but it was T-Bag who answered.  
“They said you’re from the outside, that you ain’t never lived with other wolves. But you should know, pretty, that a wolf always protects his territory.”  
“She just wanted to see her brother!” Michael snapped.  
“And see him she did,” came the answer. “She can die happy.”  
“What else can be expected from a paedophile and a murdered,” Michael muttered. “You, Sammy, Lechero…you’re all animals, in more ways than one.”  
“Now you be careful who you’re lumping me in with,” T-Bag warned him. “I don’t keep that company.”  
“I don’t care,” Michael said. “Just get away from me.” His skin prickled, as the strange scent suddenly spiked, licking along his body like a flame. Bagwell seemed almost enraged by the words, eyes narrowed and filled with anger. “You’re lucky I can’t touch you,” he said, his voice jumping and tight with control. “I would wring your pretty little neck right now, if it weren’t for that nice bite you’re sporting. But I will enjoy tonight’s spectacle very much.”  
The wolf then turned and walked away, the self-confident swagger back, as though there was nothing in the whole wide world that could touch him.


	9. I Don't Mind the Broken Parts

“Guess what we found in Scofield’s apartment?”  
Agent Lang raised an eyebrow at her partner, who’d just barged into her office, waving a piece of paper in the air like a declaration of war. He was one of those overzealous junior detectives, who still treated every day in the Bureau like an exciting episode of Law and Order, where criminals came up with ever more creative ways of murder and corruption ran rampant, but justice always prevailed in the end.

True detective work, as Felicia Lang liked to remind him from time to time, rarely was that exciting. Even agents stationed in field officers, as opposed to those whose days were filled with training, fingerprinting, lab services or public affairs, spent most of their time doing paperwork, executing search warrants and gathering evidence. From time to time you’d be asked to testify in federal court. But no matter how many times she’d tried to dampen Eddie’s enthusiasm, the junior agent would always bounce back the next day, his cheery disposition present and accounted for.  
But in this particular case, Lang gave him a pass, because this truly was a case that would make for a rather exciting hour of television.  
“What did you find?”  
“Byphodine.”  
Agent Lang frowned. “Why does that sound familiar?”  
“I don’t suppose you have any wolves in your family?” Eddie asked, coming in and closing the door behind him.  
“No.”  
“A Firefly fan then?” he smiled, sitting down.  
“What? You mean that TV show?” She got the impression that Eddie only barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes at her.  
“Byphodine,” he said, “is an inhibitor, commonly used by Omega wolves to avoid their heat cycle.”  
Agent Lang leaned forward, folding her hands on her desk. “And you found that…in Scofield’s apartment?”  
“Yes ma’am.”  
“Can this drug be used for anything else?”

Eddie shrugged. “It’s not exactly a common prescription drug. It’s only carried in specialized pharmacies and its uses are…limited, to say the least. Its primary function is to reduce metabolic function. Upping the dosage slightly can lead to a complete shutdown – heart rate will slow down significantly, as well as breathing and other outward signs of life. Unexamined, a person under the influence of Byphodine can easily be mistaken for a cadaver.”  
“So, unless Michael Scofield liked pretending to be dead, the only possible use he could have for the drug would be as a heat suppressant, is that what you’re telling me?”  
“Essentially, yes.”  
“And what does any of that have to do with Firefly, agent?” Lang asked.  
Eddie’s face lit up. “Oh, it’s because the drug was named after it. There was a drug in that show called Byphodie with similar effects. I guess the pharmaceutical company thought it’d be funny. Or make the drug sell better. I don’t know.”  
“Or get them slapped with a copyright lawsuit,” agent Land commenter drily. “Is it possible for Scofield to be an Omega wolf? Have we made any progress with searching for his biological parents?”  
Agent Willers shrugged. “The foster system in Chicago was an even bigger mess back then than it is now and Scofield got moved a lot. Not just from one foster family to another, but they also kept transferring him from one group home to another. Never stayed longer than a year.” He said, glancing down at the little piece of paper in his hand. “His records are…messy and unorganized, to say the least. No mention of him being a wolf though. Nothing out of the ordinary.”  
“That’s not really a surprise,” agent Land said. When Eddie threw her a questioning look, she explained, “The primary concern of the foster system was always to get kids adopted as fast as possible. I imagine there weren’t a lot of human families around willing to open their doors for a wolf pup.” She sighed. “I can’t really blame them – the system is overcrowded, has been for decades. But getting constantly shuffled around like that…it can’t have done anything positive to Scofield, mental health-wise.”

Eddie nodded. “I’m having Wheeler and Kishida question Scofield’s colleagues, too, but I doubt they’ll have anything useful to say. The guy seemed almost obsessively private, no family or close friends, no partner. It’s as though he lived completely isolated.”  
“That plays into your theory quite nicely, agent,” Lang said. “It probably would’ve been beyond exhausting for Scofield to keep his true nature hidden from anybody who had access into his private life.”  
“Or lack thereof,” Eddie quipped. “It’s not normal – a guy his age, with his looks and money – he shouldn’t have had trouble attracting partners, even if he was a social recluse.” He laughed suddenly. “A lady by the name of Barbra Elliot came by yesterday, claiming to be an important ‘character witness’. I don’t know what rumours are flying about in that fancy firm of theirs, but she seemed to think we were about to launch a manhunt on Scofield for the murder of Ms Johnson. She was swearing up and down that Scofield was the best man she’d ever known and that ‘there was simply no way he could’ve committed something that atrocious and inhumane’. Her words. That woman would’ve jumped his bones given the slightest inclination that her doing so would be welcome.”

Agent Lang looked less than impressed by that story. “Anything else, agent Willers?” she asked.  
“Yes ma’am,” he said. “There is something our friends over at CPD forgot to tell us. Only three days before the kidnapping, a robbery was reported at Middleton, Maxwell and Schaum. Two police cars were dispatched to the scene, but they found nothing. No robbers, no signs of forced entry and nothing was out of place. However, as they were conducting the routine search of the area, one policeman was shot dead, presumably by the robbers.”  
“What about his partner?” Lang asked. “Is his testimony worth anything?”  
“The policeman was shot from behind, and his partner claims he didn’t see anything – apparently, multiple shots rang out and he took cover behind a dumpster, but before he could return fire, the attackers were gone and his partner was dead. I called up the CPD forensics department and asked for their report of the crime scene – it all checks out. Also, the police couldn’t actually figure out if anything’d been stolen, until a certain Mr Driver reported, that some blueprints were missing from the storage. It seems like strange thing to steal, but I’m heading there to check it out anyway.”   
“Good job,” Lang said, genuinely meaning it. Eddie Willers wasn’t a bad agent – maybe just a bit too overzealous, like an overgrown child or a puppy. But he did his job, and he did it well, and that was certainly nothing to scoff at.

He beamed. “Did you get anything from Johnson’s fiancée? What’s his name again?”  
“Ralph Sanders. And no – I didn’t think that I would. The only even remotely interesting thing he brings to the table is what he doesn’t know. For some reason, not that I think it’s that important, Johnson never told him about the inheritance. That doesn’t seem to be like something you’d want to hide from your partner, but since Johnson is really only collateral in this case, I don’t think we need to spend more resources and time on her. It won’t get us anywhere.”  
“How can you be so sure?” Eddie frowned. “You say it like you have a definitive proof of that theory.”  
“That’s because I do,” agent Land said. She reached out and turned her computed monitor towards him, so that he could see what was on the screen. “I went through Scofield’s inbox and I found this e-mail, rescheduling a meeting from Wednesday 23rd to Friday 18th at 3 o’clock.”  
“That’s when he was kidnapped!” Eddie exclaimed.  
“Yes. The meeting was supposed to be with a Mr Elmer from a company based here in Chicago – Henegan Wrecking & Excavating. But when I called the company and asked to speak with Mr Elmer, I found out, that no rescheduling had taken place. Now, the e-mail was sent by Robert Schaum, the big boss manager himself. But Schaum claims to not have sent it.”  
“Which means,” Willers concluded, “that it was all a set up to lure Scofield out to that location.”  
“Which in turn means,” Lang continued, “that Ms Johnson was never a part of the plan. God knows why she was there, but her murder was unplanned, probably a result of a spur-of-the-moment decision on the kidnappers’ part.”

“Is it common for structural engineers to take their assistants on meetings though?” Willers said. “Maybe we shouldn’t be focusing on Scofield in this. It could all be just an elaborate plan to get rid of Johnson and absolve Scofield of suspicion. The man is certainly smart enough to pull one over on us like that.”  
“I won’t discourage you from pursuing that trail of investigation,” Lang said. “But this theory of yours lacks one important thing, Eddie. A motive.”  
“How about that boatload of cash sitting in Johnson’s account? People have killed for less than fifteen hundred grand.”  
“Which Scofield and his accomplices were planning on getting their hands on how exactly? She didn’t leave a will, people of her age rarely do, so everything she has will go to the next of kin. Somebody as intelligent as Scofield apparently is wouldn’t have made that kind of a mistake. And even if they hadn’t been planning to end up in this kind of situation, let’s say that what we have on our hands is a kidnapping gone wrong, does Scofield seem to you like that kind of a guy who would embark on a life of crime? Think about it. A beautiful apartment, cushy job that he’s guaranteed to keep until retirement that brings seventy grand a year, at least. Not the usual criminal type, is he?”  
“You’re right,” Eddie conceded. “I know all of that and I agree with you, it’s just…a feeling I guess. Just a strange hunch that I have.”  
“I understand, agent,” Lang said. “Don’t forget you have a visit to the MMS scheduled. I want a detailed report on those blueprints they’ve reported stolen and I want it on my desk by tomorrow.”

>>>>>><<<<<<

Lincoln Burrows was an Alpha in every sense of the word; stubborn and hot-headed were definitely two of his strongest character traits, only amplified by his wolf instincts and his dominant nature. He didn’t like the feeling of not being in control of a situation, regardless of what that situation was. And this, walking into Lechero’s den unarmed and vulnerable to attack without any means of protecting his pack, this set him on edge like nothing else ever could.  
Not that they had a choice; Lechero wasn’t a big fan of giving people choices. He liked them to do precisely what they were told, exactly the way they were told to do it, and when they were told to do it. Not showing up to his ass-kissing festival really wasn’t something Lincoln had even considered to be an option, but the closer they got to the residence, the more he could feel the pull to turn around on his heel and walk away swirling in his bones. 

The entire pack was there with him. Mahone was walking side by side with him, his calm presence posing a counter to Lincoln’s chaotic, angry energy. Their Betas walked behind them in tandem, heads down, their scents sour with displeasure and trepidation.  
“Burrows!” a voice from their left snapped as they walked through the gate. “What a pleasure it is to see you again.”  
“Bagwell,” Lincoln growled, smelling Tweener’s scent spike behind him. “I wish I could say the same.”  
“Now is that any way to greet an old friend?” Bagwell approached them slowly, with the familiar swing in his step, hands crammed down his pockets.   
“We’re not friends.”  
Bagwell ignored him completely. He gave the Alpha a cursory glance and then his sharp eyes moved with unerring precision to Tweener, who was half-cowering behind Lincoln’s broad back. “Hi, baby,” he beamed. “Are you happy to see me again?”  
Bagwell liked teasing the youngest member of Lincoln’s pack very much; because Tweener was such an easy target, because he got riled up so easily, because he was pretty. There were many contributing factors, but the end result was that Bagwell rarely left Tweener alone. Whenever they’d had the displeasure of running into him in the past, the short Beta could barely keep his hands to himself, even though Tweener tended to react very explosively to any unwelcome touches. Nothing the boy did seemed to ever rebuff the older man’s advances sufficiently; if anything, his adamant, angry refusal only seemed to spur the man on, encouraging him to come back again and again for more.

Lincoln wouldn’t be surprised if that really was the case. Given the man’s awful history, it was more than likely that he liked to see his prey struggle and fight, that he got off on it, that rejection only served as more fuel to his fire. Lincoln remembered reading about the man’s case in the papers – Theodore “T-Bag” Bagwell was a serial rapist, child molester and killer, who had committed acts so atrocious Lincoln shuddered to think of them. His actions had singlehandedly set human-wolf relations back decades, considering that all of his victims were human. Various activist groups in America had latched onto Bagwell, portraying him as an average representative of the wolf species and brought his crimes up over and over again to shut down any discussion or a potential bill proposal.

“Get away from me, man,” Tweener countered with his particular brand of teenage aggression. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”  
Bagwell grinned. “Oh baby, you don’t mean that. You know I can show you a good time, unlike that last trick of yours.”  
Lincoln could practically feel the atmosphere thicken. Nobody in the whole of Chicago was more aware of Tweener’s personal shortcomings and his wide variety of issues, that he tried to cover up under cocky swagger and a holier-than-thou attitude, than him and his pack, and yet all of them couldn’t seem to shake a feeling of protectiveness and responsibility over the kid. It was probably a strange mix of pity and hope, that if only they tried a little harder, they could still push Tweener onto the straight and narrow; maybe it had something to do with the fact that they knew better than anybody else what the kid had been through and that it definitely wasn’t fair to make him shoulder the entire weight of his fucked-up life. He hadn’t had it easy and the last thing he needed was some pervert dragging up sins and tragedies of the past.

Tweener drew himself up and pushed his chest forward; a move that only seemed to enhance his skinny frame and twig-like limbs. The right sleeve of his shirt was rolled up as usual, showing off his only tattoo and his pants were down so low the crotch was now existing only slightly higher than his knees. All in all, the boy definitely presented a less intimidating picture than he probably thought. A condescending smirk bloomed on Bagwell’s face and the only thing that was holding Lincoln back at this point was the knowledge that the only way to make Tweener’s situation even worse was if his Alpha decided to fight his battles for him.  
“Shut up,” Tweener said intelligently, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
“Oh, I’m sure you do, honey,” Tweener grinned. “Would you like me to call Avocado, to see if he remembers you? I reckon his long-term memory is better than yours.”  
Such merciless teasing was nothing less than Lincoln would expect from a convicted child rapist and murderer, but what somehow never ceased to surprise him was the unabashed pleasure T-Bag took from tormenting his victims, as though the only thing the other wolf lived for was causing other people pain and misery.  
“He got what he deserved,” Tweener snapped. “And if you touch me, you’ll end up like him.”  
“Oh, feisty,” Bagwell said. “That’s why I like Betas better than Omegas. So much spunk.” He turned his back on Tweener and graced Lincoln with a sunny smile. “Which reminds me, big boy,” he crooned, “Lechero wants to talk to you. In private. Pronto.”  
“What about?” Lincoln growled.   
“That I don’t know, my friend. But I think it has something to do with that delicious little morsel tied up in his backyard. The one you helped him steal, remember?”  
Lincoln did remember. And now that he had a confirmation that the Omega had been caught despite having lead his pursuers successfully off his trail, something like guilt began tugging at his strings. Even though he could hardly be blamed for the Omega’s capture, since he hadn’t actually had any part in it, he still felt as though there was something he could’ve done to prevent it. There was a quote that kept resonating in his mind, even though he couldn’t remember exactly where he’d read it or heard it. All it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. And while he wouldn’t exactly call himself a good man, the quote still rang true.

“He’s pretty,” T-Bag said, latching onto Lincoln’s guilt like a leech. “Heard he gave Lechero a run for his money. Looked nicely banged up the morning after, if you know what I’m saying.”  
“Is that all?” Lincoln demanded gruffly, barely holding back the urge to stomp the slimy Beta into the ground like the disgusting little worm that he was. “’Cause we need to get going.”  
“That’s right. Wouldn’t want to keep Lechero waiting.”  
For once Lincoln agreed with him.

Private audiences with Lechero never spelled anything good; the Alpha really wasn’t that kind of a man who lavished praise on his subordinates. Quite the contrary; he only invited his Alphas for a heart-to-heart when he wanted to give them a piece of his mind for some recent fuck-up.  
“You two!” Sammy snapped as soon as they entered. “Upstairs.”  
Sucre turned to Lincoln with a surprised expression. That was unexpected and strange and Lincoln could already feel trepidation building in the pit of his stomach. As volatile as Lechero’s temper could be at times, his actions were always pretty formulaic. The only person from Lincoln’s pack he’d ever dealt with personally was Lincoln himself; there was no reason for him to want to speak to Sucre as well this time around.  
“What the hell does he want with me?” Sucre whispered as they went up the stairs. “I don’t like this, Linc.”  
“You and me both.”

They were greeted as always by the persistent sound of television blasting at a deafening volume. The room Lechero liked to call his ‘study’ was furnished with a state-of-art television set and a comfortable sofa. It was a drug den more than anything, really. At any given time, there was at least one dealer counting money or weighing cocaine or getting chewed up by Lechero for not delivering his monthly. Lechero would often bring one of his Omegas up there too, to show off.  
A sweet scent was wafting from the room, tinged with fear. It was stangely familiar; Lincoln knew he’d smelled it somewhere before, he just couldn’t remember where or when. But before he could began wracking his mind trying to remember, Sucre interrupted his train of thought.  
“Oh no,” he gasped. “That bastard didn’t.”  
Before Lincoln could ask questions, his Beta ran into Lechero’s study without a backwards glance. Following hurriedly in Sucre’s footsteps, Lincoln entered as well. “What the hell is…”  
He’d only seen Maricruz once in his life, but the way Sucre was fighting against two wolves holding him to get to her didn’t leave any room in his mind as to the woman’s identity. “What the hell is going on?”

Lechero was standing at the window with his hands stuffed down his pockets. He hadn’t even bothered to turn and look at them. “You see, Lincoln,” he said. “There’s been some…development.”  
“What development?”  
“Let’s just say that the disappearance of one Michael Scofield hasn’t gone completely unnoticed,” Lechero answered casually, and yet in a tone that clearly suggested asking too many question was ill-advised. “The feds are poking around.”  
“What’s that got to do with Maricruz? And who the hell is Michael Scofield?” Lincoln snapped. If there was one thing he wasn’t in any mood to do, it was Lechero’s scare tactics and his roundabout way of doing things.  
“C’mon, Lincoln,” Lechero drawled, finally turning away from the window. “I know you can put two and two together.”  
There was really only one person who it could be; the only variable in the equation Lincoln still hadn’t been acquainted with.  
“The Omega?” he asked. 

Meanwhile, Sucre had been subdued by the two gorillas and was now lying face-down on the floor with one arm twisted painfully behind his back. The uncomfortable position or the knee digging into his lower back wasn’t enough to stop the barrage of expletives spilling from his mouth. Maricruz for her part just sat where she was, wide, misty eyes taking in the scene before her with both arms wrapped protectively around her distended belly. “Baby,” she whispered almost soundlessly.  
“Bingo. Nieves, café!” Lechero commanded. One of Lechero’s dealers, who’d been watching the scene with a look of carefully crafted disinterest, jumped to do as he was bid. Lincoln vaguely recognized the face; the skimpy little moustache and the curly hair and the Spanish name. Mahone used to buy weed off of him when he’d been going through withdrawals and the craving got too much to resist. Needless to say, that particular incident hadn’t exactly been a good start for healthy, friendly relationship.  
“Here’s how this is gonna go, Burrows,” Lechero continued. “I’m going to keep her here, for now. As leverage.”  
Sucre began struggling in earnest, eyes glowing yellow.  
“Down!” Lincoln yelled, before Sucre could transform. It was the last thing the needed at the moment. “Don’t you dare shift!”  
“Wise decision,” Lechero praised mockingly. “We have some urgent matters to discuss, after all. Sit.” He motioned towards the sofa and Lincoln sat, slowly. Sucre was shoved down next to him a moment later, though it didn’t go without some colourful cursing.  
“I assure you,” Lechero continued, “I won’t harm a hair on this lady’s pretty head. If you keep your side of the deal, of course. If I find out anybody’s been flapping their mouths, it’s gonna be her head on the block first.”  
“Do you really think I’d go to the feds? In case you’ve forgotten, they’re after my ass too!”  
“I’ll stay!” Sucre shouted. “I’ll stay here, just please let her go.”  
“I don’t think so. Your pretty lady will have a shelter here, until the storm blows over. But make no mistake – if I suspect that any of you have done anything to help the FBI sniff me out, I’ll start cutting off pieces. First on the line is that bastard inside of her.”

Sucre started shouted nonsensical Spanish insults, while Lincoln managed to restrain himself to glowering. He hated feeling powerless, despised the hopeless situation they were in, but there simply wasn’t anything for him to do, other than silently rage. Maricruz was huddled in her chair, tears streaking down her face as she watched Fernando struggle, and he wanted nothing more than to rip Lechero’s heart out.  
“Understood,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Anything else?”  
“What, Linc, no, we can’t just leave her!” Sucre’s eyes turned to him, accusatory and disbelieving. “God knows what they’ll do to her!”  
“Fernando…” she mumbled. “I’ll be fine.”  
“You should listen to her,” Lechero quipped. “She sounds like a smart lady.”  
“Hey!” Sucre snapped, pointing his fingers in Lechero’s face. “You don’t get to talk about her!”  
“Oh, I’ll do much more than just talk about here if you aren’t out of my sight in the next ten seconds.”  
Lincoln dragged Sucre out of the room, earning a few bruises in the process.

They should’ve known something like that was going to happen. Lechero did like to cover his bases after all, he never liked having to rely on somebody’s word alone. He controlled those he didn’t trust by any means necessary, and the man didn’t trust anybody. There was never a shortage of lackeys, simpering Betas and overly ambitious Alphas willing to do his dirty work for him, for just a little bit of cash and the status it gave them, but Lechero never let anybody get too close. Maybe that was why he was still around; all of those other wannabe-bosses who’d attempted to take control of Englewood and its wolf community before him had failed miserably, their empires falling down and crumbling like houses of cards in front of their very eyes. But not Lechero; the man wasn’t going anywhere, he was here to stay.

It was not just money he wanted. He desired power, influence, control. The strong were born to take control of the weak, that’s what he’d always say. And nobody was as strong as him.  
There was no way he was going to let Lincoln and his pack run around, knowing what they knew, without some kind of leverage, something he could pull on to make them all fall in line like docile sheep.  
“That bastard!” Sucre raged. “I need to do something! Lincoln, we can’t leave here there!”  
“I’m sorry, man,” Lincoln said, barely resisting the urge to look down at his feet to escape Sucre’s angry gaze. “There’s nothing we can do.”  
“What do you mean? There’s always something we can do!”  
“Not this time. We’ll have McGrady keep an eye on her, okay?”  
“What, that curly-haired kid? What’s he gonna do?!”  
“Keep us updated, at least. He’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”

Sucre made several rude hand gestures, pacing up and down in frustrated anger. “He won’t do you any more favours anyway. Not after that last clusterfuck.”  
“He will,” Lincoln said without any real conviction. “He’s a good kid.”  
Sucre groaned. “Let’s go find him, then.”  
Luck was on their side, because they spotted the boy before they could even start looking. He seemed busy, and when they approached him, he refused to hear them out.  
“No!” he said resolutely. “No more favours! I can still feel the bruises!”  
“I said I was sorry, kid,” Lincoln repeated. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”  
“Leave me alone, how about that? I got work to do.”  
He was carrying an armful of dry firewood, his arms straining to keep their tenuous hold. All around them people were hurrying this way and that, all acting as though the whips of their masters were behind them. Obviously, something big was planned for the evening, and whatever it was, Lincoln was sure he wanted no part of it. And yet, there he was.

“We won’t keep you long, okay? We just need you to keep an eye on that girl they brought in today. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”  
McGrady’s eyes darted back and forth, undecided and wavering. “I’ll double the money, okay?” Lincoln pressed. “It’s Sucre’s girl, okay? We just want to know that she’s safe.”  
“Nobody is safe in this place,” McGrady mumbled. “Hector’s dead, you know? He survived in the tub for longer than most.”  
“The tub?” Sucre whispered, wide-eyed and horrified. “They put him in the tub?”  
McGrady nodded. “You guys didn’t know? God, it stank so bad!”  
“Will you help us then?” That was Sucre, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. “Please!”  
McGrady hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. But only because I really need the money.”  
“Thanks, kid,” Lincoln. “We really appreciate it.”

When McGrady disappeared, Linc turned to Sucre. “I’m sorry, man,” he said. “About Hector.”  
“Thanks. But it’s not like I’ll cry over him. Sure, he was my cousin and family should stick together and all that, but after what he said about Maricruz I’m really not in forgiving mood, you know? The tub, though…I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.”  
“What is it anyway?” Lincoln asked, hands shoved down the pockets of his denims. The two stood under an alcove, hidden from any searching glances. The mansion around them was to be bustling with life, wolves running around to and for like headless chickens. It wasn’t likely that anybody would take time off their assigned tasks to listen in on their conversation, and they weren’t even talking about anything particularly interesting to any potential eavesdropper, but Lincoln still stood with his body turned towards the entrance, ready to scare off anybody, whose curiosity got the better of him.  
“You don’t know?” Sucre’s eyeballs bulged out of their sockets in surprise. “You seriously don’t know?”  
Lincoln shrugged. “No, I don’t,” he grumbled. “So, what is it?”  
“I’ve never heard of anybody actually using it before,” Sucre said. “Basically, they put you in a tub, in direct sunlight, and pour a mixture of milk and honey over you. Then…they just let you stew in your own juices. If you’re lucky, you die of heatstroke. If not, you rot alive.”  
“What do you mean rot?”  
“Because of the honey mixture, flies start to feed on the body and laying eggs into the skin. After a few days, the body is full of maggots and worms and slowly decays alive.”  
Lincoln shuddered. “You’re right,” he said. “I definitely wouldn’t wish this on anybody. And of course, only Lechero would be twisted enough to actually do something like this.”  
“I’m with you there, mate,” Sucre huffed. “That’s some fucked up shit.”  
Lincoln shook his head, then checked his watch. “C’mon,” he said. “Whatever it is we’ve come here to see, it’s about to start.”  
Sucre followed him out of the room, grumbling. “It’d better be worth it, ‘s all I’m saying.”

Nobody from Lincoln’s pack had ever been a witness to a public claiming. It was a custom from darker ages, rarely performed by those who considered themselves civilized and cultured. And to those who still clung to the centuries old tradition, its purpose has shifted. From an act necessary to ensure procreation and the continuation of a pack to a barbaric expression of unquenchable desire for pain and humiliation, of the need for ownership of others.  
Even though neither one of them had ever been a witness to such an act, they all recognized what was about to happen as soon as Lechero stepped into the yard, stripped to the waist a and leaking pheromones like a burst dam. The air was charged with energy, full of expectation and lust, and it made the hair on the back of Lincoln’s head stand up. In the middle was a makeshift wooden dais, and on the dais was a young man on his knees, with his head bowed down all the way to the ground. It was a position that screamed submission, yet his tense muscles and clenched fists suggested that the fight was far from over.

“Yo, he has a bite already!” Tweener exclaimed, foolishly raising his arm to point at the Omega. “Isn’t this a claiming ceremony though?”  
Mahone grabbed his wayward limb and pinned it to the sight of his body before the foolish gesture could garner anybody’s attention. “Idiot!” he hissed. “Hold your tongue, if you want to keep it!”  
“It’s not that kind of claiming,” Sucre said gravely. “He’s already bitten him. Now he just wants everybody to know.”  
Meanwhile, Lechero was circling the yard, surveying his audience. He shook hands with some and completely ignored others; he didn’t even grace Lincoln and his pack with a passing glance.  
“I hate that guy,” Manche grumbled, once Lechero was safely out of earshot. “I really, really hate the guy.”  
Lincoln wasn’t listening – his eyes were glued to the Omega, who was yet to move. His scent was almost impossible to catch in the sea of excited Beta and Alpha pheromones it was swimming in, but every now and then Lincoln thought he could smell a hint of something sweet and fresh, something that reminded him of pretty flowers and pine trees and home.

When the Omega finally lifted his eyes, Lincoln was dazed by their beautiful, clear sky-blue colour, so beautiful in their suffering. Not even the lack of sleep, apparent in his sunken face, could detract from the Omega’s beauty, nothing could make him appear as something that was there for the taking, only waiting for somebody strong enough to stake their claim.  
“Behold!” Lechero called out, silencing everybody present with a sweep of his arm. “Another Omega for my harem!”  
It suddenly struck Lincoln what Lechero was actually doing; it wasn’t about the Omega, or rather it was, but not in the way it seemed. Lechero wasn’t taking pride in having taken the man for himself, he was taking pride in not having let anybody else have him.

He met Mahone’s eyes over Tweener’s head. His own thoughts were staring back at him.  
“He already bears my bite!” Lechero continued. “But I want to fuck him in front of you, I want all of you to watch!” Cheers followed. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he? And he feels so good! So tight, like a virgin!”  
“Make him scream!” somebody shouted, and Lincoln’s stomach turned. As he watched Lechero stalk towards the Omega with a smile that was nothing short of predatory plastered all over his face, it was all he could do to keep himself from attacking the Alpha. Something inside him was screaming, demanding that he stop this from happening, and yet his feet were rooted in place, unable to move.  
Lechero grabbed the Omega’s chin and pulled it sharply upwards, making him look at him. The Omega’s face was surprisingly devoid of emotion, but his eyes were pale and round with fear. When fingers began to tease the still-healing bite wound in the juncture of his shoulder and neck, he tried to lean away from the touch, but there was nowhere for him to go. The tension began building in his frame the longer Lechero kept fondling him. His face alternated between expressions of pain and anger, and when the Alpha leaned down to nose at his neck, he tore himself away from the hold and landed a punch square in Lechero’s face.

The yard was suddenly so quiet you could hear a pin drop.  
The silence was then pierced by a pained scream, as Lechero’s teeth sank into the Omega’s neck again, reopening the sealed-over bonding bite. With crimson blood still dripping from his fangs, Lechero grabbed the Omega by the throat and yelled, “I’ve had just about enough of you! You will sit here and you won’t move a muscle, do you understand? Or God help me I won’t be responsible for what I do to you!”

An Alpha command. A command no bonded Omega could disobey. The battered body on the dais seemed to collapse on itself, one hand scrambling to cover the bite, the other winding itself around the midsection. The Omega leaned forward, gasping for breath, mouth wide open and eyes squeezed shut. Lincoln thought he could see tears slowly trickling down his cheeks.  
Lechero paid no mind to the Omega’s pain. He leaned over him, pressing his cheek and chest down, forcing him to raise his hips. The Omega, now in the convenient mating position, weakly struggled. “See?” Lechero boasted, running his hands down the Omega’s sides, “They just need a firm hand. They want, no, they need somebody to own them, somebody to take control of their pathetic, miserable little lives and give them purpose!” This time, nobody cheered, only a feet hoots and hollers rose from the crowd, isolated and hollow. Even the Alphas present seemed now somehow disturbed by the proceedings, even as their common sense tried its hardest to override their ingrained instinctual response to a suffering Omega.

“I have a feeling this wonderful specimen will give me a beautiful litter,” Lechero crooned softly. “Once he’s been sufficiently broken down, of course.”  
Lechero stood behind the Omega’s upraised bottom, looking like a conqueror of the world, as though there was no place on Earth he’d rather be at the moment. He reached for his belt, slowly, unhurriedly, his movements languid and calm. It was a nice belt, made of thick leather with a heavy steel buckle. “Bitches just need a little pain to remind them of their-“  
Lechero’s impromptu little speech ended unexpectedly in a surprised huff, and he stumbled back a few steps. It took Lincoln a moment to process what’d actually happened and when he did, he almost couldn’t believe it.   
The Omega had kicked Lechero in the chest.  
The Omega had disobeyed an Alpha command.  
And he was now hurriedly getting up, before Lechero could gather his bearings, and was running across the yard, to the gate. All of the assembled wolves stood by, too dumb-struck by what they’ve just witnessed to actually step in and prevent him from escaping. It was not even necessary, in the end.

Before Lincoln could even begin to inwardly cheer him on, the Omega’s mad dash stopped just as quickly as it’d started. A figure appeared in the gate, and the escapee, who didn’t manage to catch himself in time, slammed straight into the man’s plump belly.  
“Well, well, well,” Brad Bellick grinned. “What do we have here?”


	10. The Truth in The Blood

“Man, don’t you ever have enough?”

The man’s chubby face was a strange combination of shrewd, calculating and stupid; his little beady watery eyes stared at Michael and in their depths was nothing but compassionless amusement and petty greed. His thin lips stretched into a grimace that could be called a smile, if only it was born out of amusement, and not malice and cruelty.

As soon as their bodies collided, Michael took a step back, to put some distance between them. But before he did so, under his palm he felt the unmistakeable, hard shape of a gun, tucked into the man’s waistband.

The man clearly didn’t fear Lechero nearly as much as everybody else seemed to; or he was doing a good job of covering it. He seemed to have no qualms about teasing the Alpha, but where that might usually be indicative of a friendship, or at least of tentative acquaintance, the weapon suggested otherwise. Judging by the hand that seemed to always be hovering in its proximity, the man wouldn't hesitate before using it – considering the fact he didn’t even bother to hide the gesture, it could probably be safely deduced that their animosity was mutual.

“What are you doing here?” Lechero asked, annoyance and anger colouring his tone. “You weren’t invited.”

The mysterious visitor's stance was aggressive; he stood with his legs wide apart and shoulders pushed back, which in turn drew the gaze to the his chest. He stood like a man used to being in positions of power, like a man who was used to being obeyed. In contrast, his voice was light and amused. “You’re throwing a party and you didn’t think to invite me? Your most trusted handy man? I’m hurt.”

“Spit out what you want and leave before I have Sammy tear you to pieces.”

The secondary Alpha was coiled like a spring; he seemed to be ready to jump to the task any time. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that Sammy disliked everybody, but his reaction to this man’s presence seemed extreme even for him.

“I’ve always wondered,” the man continued, gaze shifting from Lechero to his right-hand man, “what kind of a name is Sammy anyway? It’s not really menacing, is it? Sammy. Sammy the kitten, Sammy the stuffed bear… Sounds better than Sammy the Alpha wolf, doesn’t it?”

When wolfs shifted, the change was usually instantaneous – one moment they were human, or at least wearing a human form, and huge, furry, snarling beasts the next. The transition was usually so swift it seemed as though one body simply disappeared and was then replaced by another. Michael never really gave that particular issue much thought – if he ever contemplated anything to do with werewolves, it certainly wasn’t in any way related to the shift process. He knew that it was the subject of many scientific studies and those so-called **“** zoologists specializing on the Homo Lupus subspecies” often focused their efforts toward trying to sufficiently explain it, and along the way produced many famous and often quoted studies. One of those, titled _How the Wolf Sheds Its Skin_ , was actually taking up space on one of Michael’s bookshelves, gathering dust. Having purchased it on a whim, when it had caught his attention in a bookstore, he was yet to actually open it. Whatever impulse had driven him to buy it had failed to push him to read it, and even though upon its publishing it created a sort of sensation, he’d still felt no particular urge to.  

If Michael had cared enough, he might have actually attempted to analyse whatever it was that drove him every so often to take momentary interest in the wolf culture and their habits or bring it up on his bi-weekly meetings with Dr Suresh, but there’d always seemed to be much more pressing matters to be discussed. And besides, it was an issue he would’ve probably been capable of untangling on his own – no matter how much he distanced himself from that part of his being, no matter how much pills he swallowed and how much he cultivated normal social behaviour, there would always be something in him not completely human, something that couldn’t be snuffed out and smothered, because it was a part of his very DNA, because it was at the foundations of the very core of his being.

But as it was, his knowledge was very much limited to the average person’s, and your average person probably wasn’t privy to scenes like the one that was unfolding in front of him at the moment. Sammy, enraged to the extreme by the man’s casual words, let loose an inhuman shriek, that distinctly reminded Michael of nails scratching against chalkboard. Barely able to resist the urge to cover his ears, he watched in horrific fascination, as Sammy’s skin began to crack and split like a suit that was suddenly too small to contain his body. Disturbingly bloodless flaps of skin began falling off as black fur began pushing through the cracks, and yet the change went no further. His shape remained human, albeit with some other disconcerting changes. His eyes suddenly began to glow bright yellow, canines extended and his spine seemed to crack in several places, because his back became straight in places where it should’ve been curved and curved in places where it should’ve been straight.

His fingers curled inwards into the palms, so tightly the fine bones must’ve been on the verge of breaking, and the skin on his knuckles began to open, long sharp claws pushing through. His words were slurred when he spoke, his tongue and lips hindered by the appearance of elongated lower and upper canines. The prominent lisp would’ve been ridiculous, but there was little humour to be found in the situation.

”I’ll tear your throat out, you ill-bred monkey!” Sammy growled. “I’ll kill you!”

Everything happened within the span of seconds, but before Sammy’s could make good on his promise, Lechero’s voice cut through the air like a whip, and everything froze. The deep, raspy voice infused with that mysterious, Alpha vibes seemed to immobilize the very air around them; Michael felt his muscles lock, even his breathing seemed to slow down. The curious on-lookers weren’t faring much better, but nobody had the voice greater impact on than Sammy, who stopped mid-step and then crumbled to the floor like a puppet with all of its strings cut. His hard, muscle-packed body just folded down without any resistance, as though every single bone in his body just turned to mush. Lechero hadn’t even needed to use actual words for the command to be effective; what’d come out of his throat was just a deep, primal, guttural sound that didn’t even remotely resemble anything a human could produce.

The only person who didn’t seem at all affected was the only human present; the man whose throat Sammy was only seconds away from tearing out hadn’t hesitated. Even before Lechero stepped in and diffused the situation, his hand had already gone to the butt of his gun and pulled the weapon out before Michael could blink. It was trained point blank at Sammy’s head and didn’t lower, not even after Sammy’d already dropped to the ground like a stone.

The man’s finger rested confidently, almost casually on the trigger, as though the action of pulling out a gun was nothing unfamiliar to him. “You don’t wanna mess with me,” he said. “This baby is loaded full with silver-cadmium bullets and I won’t hesitate to litter your hide with them.”

Whatever business Lechero had the man, nobody else, not even Sammy, was privy to it. For someone who prided himself on being Lechero’s right-hand man, something like that surely had to sting. But Michael didn’t exactly have time to contemplate Sammy’s possible fall from grace; shortly after the Alpha and his guest disappeared, he was herded away as well, taken to a different part of the building, where everything smelled sickly sweet and nobody was willing to look him in the eye.

The occupants were all Omegas; all were dressed much more expensively that any other inhabitants he’d seen so far – the women, who were admittedly the vast majority, all wore expensive-looking flowy dresses that fluttered about in the non-existent breeze and complimented their lovely figures. Plenty of them were in various stages of pregnancy, waddling about with their arms protectively cradling their bellies; such gestures seemed unnecessary considering the guards treated them all so gently they might as well have been fragile china dolls. Michael had a feeling that should any guard lay a hand on one of Lechero’s Omegas, they could count themselves lucky if they made it out of that blunder alive.

However gently they treated the others, Michael wasn’t afforded the same courtesy. The hands clamped around his upper arms were sure to leave bruises and nobody was really bothered when he, with two pairs of hands steeering him every which way, woud lose his balance or bump into walls. They dragged him along like a sack of potatoes, and it was all he could do to keep up and try to ignore the gawking stares directed at him. The outright hostility he sensed from the Omegas around him was unexpected, but not really surprising when he thought about it. Omega’s could be just as territorial as Alphas, the only difference was that Alphas were much more forthright. “C’mon,” one of the Beta guards grumbled, when Michael slowed down. Something out of the corner of his eye had captured his attention, but before he could take a closer look, he was being tugged along even faster than before. “We need to get you to your room,” the man said, “before the harpies eat you alive.” The idea, that in this foul, disgusting place his worst enemies would be a squadron of pregnant Omegas, was decidedly amusing, and yet Michael for some reason didn't feel like laughing.

They dragged him up a staircase and down a hallway and through a door that led into a quite beautiful, cosy little room with its own balcony and some rather lavish furnishings. When the previous treatment at the hands of his captors was taken into consideration, this really was quite the turnaround. “Somebody will bring you some food,” one of the Betas grumbled, before the doors slammed shut and Michael could clearly hear the key turning in the lock.

His first impulse was to try the door. Even though he’d heard it being locked, he could shake the irrational urge to go and make sure – as though he thought the guard might’ve forgotten how to lock doors. He took a couple of steps towards it and rested his hand on the door handle. It was cool and smooth under his palm and he squeezed it, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. _What am I doing?_ he thought.

He retracted his hand and took a deep breath. The events of the last two days were clearly only now catching up with him and he felt as though he was experiencing everything all over again. To distract his mind from the less-than-pleasant thoughts, he turned his attention to what was apparently to be his room. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant – the idea of anything in this mansion truly belonging to him was preposterous, but maybe Lechero did afford his Omegas some basic freedoms around here. If it was indeed so, he might have a decent chance of getting out of here.

However, the more likely explanation formed in his mind before he could even finish getting his hopes up. The fact that Lechero had assigned each Omega their private room wasn’t to make them feel comfortable or to give them privacy – he simply wanted them all in one place, where they could all hear each other and be jealous of the one who was given the honour of being Lechero cum bucket for the evening. It was simply a way to fuel their competitiveness and their jealousy. It was a clever move, on more than one front. Not only would they never form a united front against Lechero, they would all also try and one-up each other in their attempts to please him.

Michael shook his head in disgust.

He walked over to the balcony and stepped outside – the scenery in front of his eyes truly was magnificent, beyond anything he’d ever expected could be found in Keystone. The gardens were well-kept, hedges and lawns trimmed, exotic trees afforded pleasant shade and bubbling fountains completed the scenery, all coming together to create one big cliché of a garden. Still, the beauty seemed tragically wasted on a place like this – Lechero hardly seemed like the type of a man who’d take time from his busy schedule to smell the roses.

A knock on the door brought Michael out of his reverie – he turned to the door and waited, not expecting the person on the other side of them waiting for his permission to enter. The idea seemed ludicrous – that somebody in this place would care for something so basic like manners seemed entirely out of this world. But when the knock sounded again, slightly louder this time, Michael called out, “Enter!”

In shuffled a young boy, who couldn’t have been older than eighteen, with a tray in his hands and a sheepish expression on his face. The head of bouncy, dark curls was familiar to Michael – had he seen this boy before?

“I brought you some dinner,” the boy said hesitantly, not looking up from the tray he was carrying.

His body language just screamed defeat and resignation. He didn’t seem particularly scared of Michael (why should he be?), just generally wary, as though everything he encountered on daily basis was just another dose of punishment and humiliation for the boy. Michael felt pity for him – god knew what he was doing here and why he’d come, but he was hardly a respected member of the household. One didn’t even look far for evidence of this – his clothing was tattered, dirty and torn, his hair greasy and obviously hadn’t been brushed in a while, for Christ sake’s, he wasn’t wearing any shoes! Water was clearly a luxury for him, and his body odour was so strong it almost overpowered his subtle Beta pheromones.

“Thank you,” Michael said. “Would you mind telling me your name?”

The boy ignored his words completely, setting the tray down on a nearby table and turning to leave. “My name’s Michael,” Michael said in an attempt to start up a conversation. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The boy’s eyes widened slightly, as though he’d never heard those words spoken to him before. For a moment he just stood there, clearly unsure as to how to proceed. His eyes were still averted, drilling a hole into the wooden floor between his bare feet, and confusion radiated from his every pore. He didn’t say anything though. So blank and devoid of any understanding was his expression, that if he hadn’t spoken before, Michael would’ve thought he didn’t speak any English. “If you don’t tell me your name,” he continued, “I’ll just have to make one up for you.” He accompanied the words with a smile.

“Louis,” the boy mumbled after a moment in an accented English. “My name’s Louis.”

Michael’s smile widened. “That’s a very pretty name, thank you for telling me.”

A loud growling noise erupted suddenly, interrupting whatever Michael was about to say next – with a start, Michael realized that it wasn’t _his_ stomach growling – it was Louis’. Fear and embarrassment filled Louis’ eyes in equal parts when Michael chuckled. “Sorry…” he said.

His cheeks were hollow, sunken in; he probably hadn’t had a decent meal in days.

Michael smiled and pointed to the tray, on which a plate full of what looked like boiled beef and a mixed of some not-so-delectable looking vegetables was perched, together with two slices of bread and some water in a tall glass. “Go on,” he encouraged the boy. “Have some.”

Startled brown eyes met his. _Are you serious?_ they seemed to say. The disbelief was written clear as day across Luis’ face and it took everything Michael had not to groan in frustration and anger, lest Luis think they are directed toward him. “I’m not hungry,” he said dismissively. “If you don’t want it, I’ll toss it out.”

That finally seemed to break Louis’ resolve, because he jumped to the table and, not bothering to sit down, began shoving food into his face at a breakneck pace. Probably convinced that the dish was going to be taken away from him at any moment, he seemed to swallow without any chewing, his cheek bulging out like a hamster’s. Every now and then he paused to wash the food down with a gulp of water – Michael, whose own stomach was protesting against the lack of food, coughed loudly to cover the sound his empty intestines made. The last thing he needed was for Louis to be guilty about taking food from him. Michael could go a couple days without food still, and hopefully, Luis would give him something much more valuable in return. Also, the boy really did look like he was about to keel over at any moment.

“They don’t give you much food, do they?” he said conversationally, leaning against the bedpost. The distance between himself and Louis seemed appropriate to him – not enough to make it impersonal, but just far enough that Michael was firmly outside of Louis’ personal bubble, and therefore would be perceived as a less of an immediate threat.

Louis, clearly invigorated by his filling stomach, nodded. “No,” he squeezed out past another giant mouthful. “Thank you.” Something went down the wrong pipe, and he coughed, bits of chewed-up food flying everywhere in a spray of spit. “Slow down,” Michael chided. “Take it easy. The food’s not going anywhere.”

Louis, his face buried in the water glass, gave a small, almost imperceptible smile; it was more of a lip twitch, really. “I have somewhere to be,” he said, sheepishly, almost apologetically. “I need to bring something to...” He trailed off in the middle of a sentence, as though suddenly remembering he wasn’t supposed to talk about whatever it was he’d been about to talk about. Instead he shoved some more food into his mouth, not bothering with utensil, just using his dirty, grimy fingers.

Not sure whether he should pressure the boy or not, Michael chose to take a leap of faith. “Something to the policeman?”

Louis looked startled. “Mr Bellick? Yes, how did you…?”

“Know that he’s a policeman?” Michael finished. “It was just a theory – as far as I’m aware, only the police use a silver-cadmium alloy for their bullets.” He laced his fingers together and leaned forward, meeting Louis’s eyes. “The real question is…What is a policeman doing with Lechero?”

The room was silent, save for Louis’ one last swallow. The boy was clearly at his wit’s end as to how to respond, so in the end, he chose the easiest way out. He jumped to his feet and headed for the door, feet slapping against the smooth floor.

“Wait!” Michael called. “Please, I…”

The boy turned around, desperation making him brave. “No! I’m already an errand boy for Burrows and his pack! I can’t help you!”

The door slammed shut behind him and was locked again – Michael wondered briefly if that meant the boy had a key, or if there was a guard stationed outside. It hardly mattered at the moment, as Micheal’s head quickly filled with speculations sparked by Louis’ parting statement.

The only Burrows he knew of who lived in Keystone was Lincoln Burrows, and there was simply no way…but why not? It actually made perfect sense.

Something crunched under his foot – he lifted it to take a look, and found a shattered vial of some dark, sticky liquid that was now spilling sluggishly over the wooden floor. The puddle it created was small, but the pungent smell emanating from it was enough to make Michael turn his nose. It was a bitter, stinging scent, cloyingly sweet and vaguely reminiscent of rotting bodies, and yet the metallic, sharp tang didn’t leave Michael any doubt as to its origin. It must’ve been blood, and not just any blood – wolf blood.


	11. We're Drinking the Finest Label

Louis Gallego wasn’t a rebel – he was just a Beta, doing whatever he had to do to get by. At just seventeen years of age, he was already the breadwinner for his entire family, and running for Lechero didn’t exactly pay much. So, he focused his money-making efforts into other ventures.

Lincoln Burrows’ pockets weren’t deep, but he was willing to shell out the cash Louis needed for the information that he had to give. Louis didn’t know, and neither did he particularly care, as to what Burrows did with the information or and why he even wanted it in the first place, he only cared for the little green papers the Alpha was willing to part with.

And oh my, did he have a doozy for him today. Brad Bellick didn’t visit Lechero all too often, but when he did, shit was always bound to hit the fan. The fact that Louis knew enough about the two men’s machinations to put them both behind bars for a very long time was something the boy was more than aware of, and the irony of it all was a constant source of bitter amusement in his life. He never actually considered going to the police with what he knew – his work for Lechero kept the cash trickling down his way, and Bellick’s involvement with his Alpha only led him to believe that the CPD was full of cops on the bend like him.

Bellick did runs for Lechero, through some guy called Dutchman; and especially now that FBI was apparently cracking down hard on the illegal wolf blood trade, his services were invaluable – nobody would actually think to look for any illegal substances in the trunk of a policeman’s unmarked vehicle.

But now, apparently, there was some trouble heading their way; not just for Lechero, but for Burrows as well.

Their meetings were always awfully clandestine; Louis more than understood the need for secrecy because he was sure to lose his head should Lechero ever found out he’d been snitching, but Burrows almost always took things to the next level. Inspired probably by B-rated action flicks, the Alpha always chose some abandoned parking lot or a dilapidated building for their next meeting spot, always arrived at least thirty minutes after Louis with a stupid pair of sunglasses and a snapback, as though they did anything to disguise his broad, muscular frame or his permeating Alpha scent.

“Where’s my money?” was the first thing that came out of Louis’ mouth. Burrows frowned, which seemed to be his default expression. He had that kind of a face that seemed most suited for frowning; in the past ten years he probably hadn’t had much opportunities for smiling though, he must’ve forgotten how to.

“Here,” he grumbled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of crumbled bills. “This had better be worth it, kid.”

Louis grabbed the notes and stuffed them into his pocket – he wasn’t even the least bit guilty about taking the stuffy, sweaty creased money from a man who clearly was in short supply of them. This time, Burrows was really going to get his money’s worth.

“Do you know about the cop who was killed in Englewood about two weeks ago?” Louis started. “Neither did I, somebody did a very good job of covering that up.”

“Lechero,” Burrows grumbled. “But…”

Louis didn’t let him speak. He didn’t have time to waste waiting for the Alpha’s sluggish mind to catch up. “But not before the CPD caught wind of it and recovered the body.”

“What?” Burrows grumbled. “No cops come here, I should know.”

Louis shrugged. He wasn’t particularly interested – nothing interested him much. He found that sticking his nose into other people’s business wasn’t a suitable hobby for someone looking to stay alive. “Apparently, Bellick managed to cover it at the coroner’s, at least that’s what he told Lechero,” Louis droned on, “but he wants more money in exchange to keep quiet.”

“Cover it?” the Alpha asked, bemused. “Cover what?” When Louis shrugged, Burrows took of that ridiculous snapback of his and ran a large palm over the shining, bald skin of his scalp. “Anything more?”

“Bellick said that it must’ve been Bagwell who did it because the guy was raped…but when he was already dead.”

Burrows hissed. “That’s a dead giveaway, isn’t it? Nobody else is sick enough to do something like this.”

“Bellick said that he succeeded in shifting the blame to you and your pack – apparently, the CPD is launching something big, looking to weed you out.”

Louis spat out those words as quickly as he could, shuffling away under the force of Burrow’s murderous gaze. Compared to the media’s overblown portrayal of the man, he was a sweetheart most of the time. But now, his deep-set eyes were a blazing storm, anger written into every line on his face, his fists were clenching by his sides. “Goddamn!” he yelled. “After years of hiding in the stinkies, dumpiest places I could find, the pigs still haven’t forgotten about me?!”

Louis raised his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” he said, his voice quaking. “Can I please go now?”

“Do you know more?” Burrows pressed. “What’s going down, when, any details?” When Louis mutely shook his head, he sighed. “What’s with Maricruz?” he asked instead, obviously still having a hard time curbing his temper. “Did you see her?”

“No,” Louis shrugged apologetically. “I don’t know where they keep her, and I can’t just go snooping around, you know that. Maybe they keep her with the Omegas, I don’t know?”

“The Omegas,” Burrows repeated slowly. “Did you see the new Omega by the way, McGrady? What’s his name, do you know?”

“Michael,” said Louis. “His name’s Michael.”

“Michael,” Burrows repeated, as if trying the word on for size. “Well, did you see him?”

“Yeah,” Louis said. “They had me bring him some food. Why?”

“Where do they keep him?” Burrows said. “If you’ve been to see him, you must know.”

“He has a room on the first floor in the Omega wing, but away from the others. You know how Omegas get.”

Burrows did, in fact, not know _how Omegas get_ , but he nodded anyway. “Could you give him a message from me?”

Louis frowned. “I don’t know man, I don’t think I’ll be able to…”

“Just try,” Lincoln pressed. “I’ll pay you for your troubles but delivery it to him.”

“Okay,” Louis agreed reluctantly, knowing he was going to come to regret it. “…I’ll try.”

“Tell him…” Burrows hesitated, “Tell him that he has friends here, that I’m going to help him get away from Lechero. Soon. Tell him that.”

Louis, in his ratty jersey and rattier khaki shorts, greasy hair and dirty face, gave the Alpha an appraising look. “What do you want with him?” he asked. “You’re not just doing this out of the goodness of your heart, I know you.”

Burrows frowned. “None of your business, kid. Now run along, and don’t forget to give Michael my message.”

Louis did as he was told; he was not a hero. He was just a Beta trying to get by.

>>>>>><<<<<< 

There were angry waves rolling off of Lechero, gathered around the Alpha like restless clouds. He’d barged in about twenty minutes ago, shouted for somebody to bring dinner and then plopped onto a chair and refused to say another word. Michael, who’d been startled by the man’s sudden appearance, was now simply bemused, and somewhat disconcerted by the Alpha’s quiet, assessing gaze.

“Sit down,” Lechero beckoned him regally. “And be still. Let me look at you.”

Michael felt an inexplicable pull to do exactly as the man asked; he didn’t fight it. At the moment, considering the situation he was in, he had to pick his battles. As much as it angered him, made him loathe himself, he slid onto the proffered chair with his hands folded over one another on the shiny, smooth surface of the table.

“What do you want?” Michael asked, because he just couldn’t stay quiet. Because talking made him feel a little in control; because Lechero clearly wanted him to keep his mouth shut.

“I need to calm down,” Lechero said, indulging his impertinence with a gracious smile. “And looking at you calms me down. How beautiful you are, my sweet.”

“The police must already be looking for me,” Michael said. “You can’t, you won’t get away with kidnapping people.”

Lechero chuckled. “I can, I have and I will. No cops come here, nobody will look for you here. Englewood is a black hole – what goes in, never comes out.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “You sound really sure of yourself. Don’t tell me you’ve done something like this before.”

Lechero’s dark eyes focused on his face, full of careless confidence. “Of course,” he said. “I see something I want, I take it.”

“I was something you wanted?” Michael demanded. “Why?”

Lechero shrugged. “I want to have things other people don’t. Money, power, Omegas to fuck. I want people to fear me.”

A servant arrived with a ridiculous trolley covered in fluffy white cloth piled high with plates of steaming food. The scent alone was enough to make Michael, who hadn’t eaten in what felt like an eternity, to salivate. “Leave it here and scram,” Lechero growled.

The Beta was almost out the door when Lechero suddenly snapped “Wait! Where’s the wine?”

“Y-You didn’t ask for…” was all the Beta managed before the full force of the Alpha’s wrath was unleashed upon him.

“You useless bitch!” Lechero shouted, backhanding the poor man so hard he fell down to the floor, where he wisely stayed, unmoving and barely breathing. That position had the added advantage of being out of reach of the man’s fists; on the other hand, he was now conveniently close to the Alpha’s feet. The force of the first kick sent his poor, emaciated body flying – it was accompanied by an almost inaudible hiss of pain. Clearly, the Beta was used to abuse.

“Do I have to tell you everything?” the Alpha raged, feet flying. “Can’t you do anything by yourselves?”

Another kick had Michael wincing in sympathy. “I think he gets the message!” he shouted. He was sure he’d heard a bone snap, and Lechero wasn’t shoving any signs of stopping.

The Alpha was on him in seconds. “Does he?” he yelled, spit flying everywhere. “Because I’m not so sure.”

“I am,” Michael answered as calmly as he could, looking the man straight in the eyes. “Leave him be.”

The Alpha’s scent spiked; it tickled Michael’s nostrils. “You’re a brave one, aren’t you?” Lechero said with a strange expression on his face.

“You!” he shouted to the prone Beta. “Get up and fetch my wine!”

The man picked himself up off the floor, clearly in severe pain, and limped out as fast as he could.

“I like you Omega,” Lechero said, almost amused. “You have…how do you Americans say it? Guts? Yes, you have guts. I admire that.”

He leaned in closer, his expression swiftly shifting. “But what I don’t admire is disrespect. And you have too much of that, don’t you? Think you’re better than me, do you?”

He backhanded Michael. “I don’t like people who look down on me. It makes me very angry. I don’t like people who disobey me.”

Michael, cheek stinging from the slap, turned his head forward and looked Lechero dead in the eye. “I don’t obey you, because I don’t belong to you. You have no claim on me, on my loyalty or on my obedience. I’m not yours.”

Lechero’s face was full of thunder. “But you are mine, Omega,” he hissed. “Or have you forgotten about that pretty accessory I gave you? My claim is on your neck, plain for everybody to see.”

Michal answered calmly “I don’t see how biting me gives you any power over me,” he said. “I doesn’t mean anything unless I allow it to mean anything.”

Lechero threw his head back and laughed. “You’re really clueless, aren’t you Pretty? Hector told me you were some big shot engineer out there, designing buildings and all that. You might have education but you’re not being smart. This, this right here?” He reached out one meaty hand and gripped Michael’s shoulder, straight over the healing bite. “This means I own you, this means I control you. You can’t disobey.”

Michael’s vision clouded in pain. Through the white haze, he heard Lechero sadistic laugh. “That’s right,” the Alpha said, seeing the Omega’s pain-filled expression. “Now you’re beginning to understand.”

He grabbed Michael under the chin, squeezing his throat painfully, forced him out of the chair and began walking him backwards, until Michael, uncoordinated and in pain, ended up sprawled over the soft bed, no longer able to keep his moans of pain down. “If I tell you to spread your legs for me,” Lechero continued, “you will. If I tell you to suck my cock, you will. If I tell you to take a knife and slit your wrists, you will. Do you understand? You’re mine!”

He rolled Michael over onto his front and pressed his face into the silky pillow. When he slipped his belt around the Omega’s neck, Michael was already on the verge of passing out. He was able to suck in a few sweet breaths of air, before his airways were closed off again, this time by the unforgiving bite of Lechero’s leather belt. Almost immediately, the Alpha tightened it brutally. “I don’t want to hear a word from you ever again!” he shouted, yanking at the belt so hard Michael’s entire body was jerked backwards every time.

The Omega was so out of it he didn’t even notice when Lechero began tugging his pants down. He was not aware of much after that, only searing pain as Lechero entered him without preparation, forcing his way into Michael’s body as though it was his to take and indulge in whenever he wanted, in whatever fashion happened to strike his fancy.

Lechero kept talking; shouting senseless insults and threats, enjoying the fact that the Omega was entirely at his mercy. Every now and again, a hard thrust would be accompanied by a yank on the belt, and by the Alpha’s ensuing satisfied moan.

The last thing Michael felt before he slipped under was the unmistakeable sensation of the Alpha climaxing inside of him.


End file.
